Noir(ish) (9781101610053) (8 page)

“Oh, by all means. By
all
means.” Sydney nodded, bowed, and left. I looked toward the entryway but I didn't see anyone standing there. I finished my drink. Stanwyck finished hers. “S' long, Lieutenant,” I murmured over the empty glass. “And good luck finding Bugsy's killer. How
is
it comin', by the way?”

She snorted, another snort. “Strangest thing? There were nine bullet
holes
. Great big bullet holes.”

“Yeah, I heard. Not all of them in the walls, either.”

She leaned over and spoke quietly. Stanwyck's careful about letting press-protected facts about a case get out, but now and then I'd been a useful board to bounce them off. When she did, she had a habit of watching my reactions. I didn't mind. I had a habit of watching hers, too, when I revealed something more or less confidential. Cops and PIs read each other—and suspects and clients—that way. Stanwyck believed none of what she read in the papers and only half of what she heard. Maybe three-quarters, from me. Cops are notorious for not believing PIs, anyway. I'd never yet met one who said “Uh-huh” when I said something without sounding sarcastic. Of course, with the possible exception of Stanwyck, there wasn't much the jakes had told me over the years I thought was jake, either.

“We didn't find a single bullet,” she said. “Whoever did it actually came in and picked up every one of them before he left. Of course, nobody knows nothin'.”

“Nobody ever does.”

She put down her empty. “Including you?”

I shook my head. “Including me, Lieutenant Stanwyck.”

She nodded. “Of course, if you
did
know something, you'd tell me.”

“Of course. But I don't.”

She eyed me suspiciously but sat up and took a clean tissue from her purse. “If I find out different, I'll bring you in, Grahame. I don't care if it was Siegel.
Whoever
killed him is gonna face the music. And
anybody
who withholds information is, too.” She wiped her face and hands. “Am I clear?”

“As an extra dry martini.”

“Good.” She closed the purse and stood. “See you around. Thanks for the drink.”

“Yeah. Around. Watch out for the bad guys, Stanwyck.”

“
You
watch out for accidents.”

I laughed. “Hey, you
oughta
hope I have one: I got a double indemnity policy. You're the beneficiary. You and Greenstreet.”

Stanwyck winced. “Just what I need. Another fat, loud, lazy cat in my life; I already got the Chief.”

“This,” said Sydney, “is Mr. Grahame.”

The man he was standing beside was smiling. He looked as smooth as freshly poured asphalt, and almost as dark. He was about my age, and despite the smile he did not look like someone I would be happy meeting in an alley at midnight: He was burly and twice my size—Elisha could have been a member of the Lollipop Guild in comparison—with tight-curled jet-black hair. Slap a wreath of dead leaves on his head and wrap a tunic of them across his body, and some company could have itself a Jolly Brown Giant. My respect for Lizabeth Duryea's judgment of size surged: He was every inch of half my desktop wide and only a little shorter than a small Alp. Still, he had curiously delicate features: something about his slender, almost feminine finger, and his eyes. They were small and very round, and sort of salmon-pink, a startling contrast to his almost-black skin. He wore an expensive mocha-brown suit, a bright-yellow shirt, and an emerald-green tie with embossed orange shamrocks. I wouldn't have believed a tie like that even existed. One thing he had in common with Lizabeth: Fashion was clearly not his forte, either.

Stanwyck glanced at the stranger, sizing him up the way she sized up everyone when she was investigating a murder: as the potential killer. I doubted, however, he would have shot at Siegel once, let alone nine times. He would have sat on him instead. It would have been quicker.

The stranger smiled at her benignly. “Excuse me,” she said. “I was just leaving.”

“Oh, not on
my
account,” he said: a paragon of politeness and straight ivory tusks. His dentist must be thrilled.

“No. On his.” She tossed her head in my direction. “I'll be at the station, Robert. If you change your mind.”

“Okay,” I said. Stanwyck took one more look at the stranger, who again smiled with the controlled graciousness of a bull elephant being handed his Oscar; said “Goodnight, Sydney”—Sydney half-bowed in return—and walked briskly up the steps and out of The Pickup.

The stranger watched her leave. Then he wolf-whistled.

“You're late, Scott,” I said. “You
are
Dan Scott?”

He nodded and sat without offering his hand. I was glad. “Yeah. Sorry. Traffic,” he said, still smiling.

“Mm. You want something to drink?”

“Maybe some water, later.”

“Water? My friend Sydney here sure isn't gonna get rich off
you
.”

“I'm strictly a water man—never get enough, y' know? But I'm fine for right now.”

He loosened his tie and laughed. Loudly. I figured his laugh could stand in for the boom they said would happen when somebody finally broke the sound barrier they kept trying to break. “But I'm prob'ly gonna want some later: nice and
cold
. It's
hot
out there!”

“Mm.” I turned to Sydney. “Keep Vivian at bay a while, will you?”

The small man smiled. “Of course, Mr. Grahame. Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said, and left, quietly and quickly.

Scott folded his hands on the table and continued to smile. “Some babe you were talkin' to.”

“Yeah, she is.” That smile was already getting on my nerves. It looked painted on. “But I didn't think we were here to talk about babes.”

“No,” said Scott. His expression didn't change one iota. “Of course. 'D you bring it?”

Well, smile or no, the man was all business. That wasn't how insurance agents usually worked. Every time I talked to him, Wally Dietrichson spent ten minutes talking about our good old days in the hospital.
Then
he mentioned a new policy. “Uh-huh,” I said. “I brought it.”

Scott reached into a back pocket, pulled out a thick wallet, withdrew a wad of bills, and, without counting them, offered it to me.
Yep
, I thought. All
business
. I pushed it away. “Unh-uh. First, I want some answers.”

Scott's smile broadened—
at least it changes
—and he said genially, “This
is
thee answer. To everybody's questions.”

“Not mine.” I took out the package and held it tightly, although I was sure he could have broken off my hand at the wrist and walked out of the place, still smiling, if he'd wanted it that second. “I wanna know what's in here.”

Scott laughed. “No big secret. At least, not from you. Like you said
she
thought: It's a present. For Lizabeth. Four-carat diamond ring with a coupla rubies. I'm gonna surprise her with it.”

I turned it between my fingers. A four-carat diamond! He
did
sell a lot of insurance. “Must've set you back a few policies,” I said. Wally Dietrichson bought Phyllis, his wife, diamond earrings last year, for their tenth anniversary. A quarter-carat each. And he was the district sales leader. They were, she raved ecstatically, “huge.” Of course, Phyllis was a girl with simple tastes.

“Hey!” Scott spread his hands in the air. “Kid's had a tough life. Nothin's too good for her. Y' know?”

“Oh, I know. She's quite a gal.”

“Yeah,” said Scott. “She is.”

“What's
she
givin'
you
?”

Scott seemed oblivious to the implication. “I guess I'll just have to wait to find out,” he said pleasantly and went back to smile number one.

I nodded. “Oh, by the way: Happy Birthday.”

“Happy—?” For an instant confusion replaced the smile. Then it returned, and he said, “Oh. Thanks.”

“Yeah. How's your back?”

“It's fine. Why?”

I closed my fist around the package and leaned back. My gun was easier to reach, sitting that way, and I thought I might need it. Soon. “I was just wondering. You looked a little—stiff.”

Scott watched my fist intently. “Never been better,” he said.

“Good.” Good,
maybe
. “And your girlfriend?”

“My— Oh,
her
.” He shrugged.

“Sorry to hear that. Your
sis
ter seems to think you're in Seattle.”

“Lizabeth?” Scott said, slightly incredulously, and laughed. He sounded like a grizzly with a sinus problem. A dozen heads turned toward us, probably including a couple from the bar next door. “I was. Till this morning. I've been trying to telephone her all day to let her know. Stopped by her place, too; put a note under thee door, but I guess she hasn't been home.”

Maybe it was just a quirk, but it was the second time he'd said “thee” instead of “the.” I thought the first might have been just for emphasis. The second made me wonder. “Yeah, I tried to call her too,” I said. I looked closely at Scott's hands, hair, face. He looked normal (at least he did if you were a Brobdingnagian; I, however, felt like Gulliver). Except for the eyes. But he might have an albino gene or something like that. I'd look it up sometime. “She also seemed to think someone might be keeping you there. Maybe against your will.” A horde of Titans, maybe.

Scott laughed again. “Lizabeth gets a little—confused sometimes.”

“I see.” I opened the fist and looked at the small, carefully sealed packet on my palm. “Y' know, I don't think I've ever seen a diamond that big. I'd like to.”

“It'll be on her finger tomorrow,” Scott said cheerfully. “I'll bring her by thee office.”

“What's wrong with now?”

He looked around, then leaned toward me and spoke confidentially. His breath smelled
too
sweet, like he'd been sucking on mixed fruit–flavored Life Savers all day. Well, mine smelled like bourbon. If he didn't drink, that was probably just as hard to take. “It's a little too much to be showing around in a place like this.”

I snorted. “My friend Sydney might get hurt feelings if he heard you say that. Anyway, this is the most private table in the joint. And seein' as there's just the two of us . . .”

“I'd just ratheer not.” I raised my eyebrows. “So if you'll just give it to me . . .” He reached for it. I pulled it back.

“I've got more questions.”

Scott sighed but smiled. “All right. What d' ya wanna know?”

I sipped my what had been bourbon over ice but was now mostly water. And tepid water at that. Scott may have enjoyed it, but as far as I'm concerned, water's for taking a shower. Or making coffee. It's okay as a mixer, but I don't make a habit of drinking it straight. “Where did Lizabeth get the money she was carrying around last night?”

Again, he seemed surprised. “I didn't know she
was
carrying money.”

“Funny, you didn't seem to know she left the packet with me, either. Until I told you.”

“I was—just makin' sure you had it.” He extended the smile.

Uh-huh
. “I see. Anyway: She had ten or twenty thousand dollars.”

Now he seemed amused. “You saw her with ten thousand dollars?”

“Or twenty. We didn't count it.”

He laughed. “Well, that's news to me!”

There was an awful lot about his sister that was news to Dan Scott, and the gnawing sensation I'd had last night listening to her was back. The good news was, whatever else might be happening, focusing on the peculiarities was clearing my head: I was confused, but along with that I felt a tingle of answers beginning to come together, like molecules looking to make atoms. And I noticed Frank Sinatra warbling through “Always”; it was the first time I'd noticed the jukebox since Scott sat down. “That's an awful lot of dough for somebody to be carrying in her purse.”

Scott looked around, then leaned into me again. “Look,” he said in his version of a whisper, “there's something you oughta know about Lizabeth. She can be a little . . .” He put an index finger to his temple and turned it. “Y' know? More than just—confused, if you know what I mean. Don't get me wrong: She's a sweet kid, but . . .” He repeated the gesture. “That's why I try to look out for her. Have someone keep an eye open when I can't.”

“I see.” I swallowed more water, wishing it were bourbon. “So, how
was
Seattle?”

“Nice. Wet. Not thee kind a weatheer I'm used to.”

There it was again.
Well
. “Sell a lot of insurance?”

Scott shook his head. “Wasn't really a sales trip. More like getting to know what's gonna be in thee air thee next couple of years. Flew around thee Sound a few times. New aircraft, y' know.”

He didn't sound like a foreigner, like Lizabeth Duryea did; maybe it was just a speech impediment. Odd, yeah. Nothing about the way he spoke seemed threatening, but there
were
those four hundred or so pounds on that seven-foot frame. I sort of expected him to break out in “Fee-fi-fo-fum” any minute. Made me glad my parents were Scottish, not English. “Sounds pretty routine. What kept you?”

Scott's smile froze, then gradually but steadily melted away, and his face reset itself in a hard-eyed, grim frown. The salmon eyes turned fire-red. “Business, Grahame,” he said. “
My
business.”

I nodded. Never argue with a four-hundred-pound red-eyed canary about where it wants to sleep. “O-kay.”

At once the smile returned. “Hey! I got things to do. I think I've been pretty polite. So why don't you just give me that and we'll both go where we gotta go.”