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Authors: Louis Trimble

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BOOK: The Duchess of Skid Row
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I said, “This is a public room in a public building. If you don’t like my being here, try moving me.”

I caught the wicked flick of a grin dancing at the corners of his mouth. Then it was gone. He pulled his hand from the file and shut the drawer with a quick push. He stepped toward me.

He moved too fast for me to set a defense. He got one hand over my wrist. He made a sudden pivot and pulled me off balance. I was too surprised to fight him back by relaxing. I forced the issue and stepped in toward him. I felt him make a lever of my arm, and I felt my feet leaving the floor. I did a beautiful one and a half in the air. I landed on my back with my head toward the cross aisle I’d come down.

His speed had almost made me miss the swift words he whispered as he let loose of me: “Papers in the file. Get them.”

I rolled to my knees. I looked squarely into Captain Ritter’s eyes. He said with that kind of soft viciousness a policeman learns to generate in his voice, “Who told you to come here and expose Itsuko? You knew he was working under cover.”

“You’re making too much out of nothing, Captain.” I got to my feet and looked behind me. Johnny Itsuko had disappeared. The alley of files was empty except for the two of us. “There was no one around when I approached Johnny, and you know it,” I said.

He said coldly, “Try proving that at your hearing, McKeon.”

He turned and stalked away. I followed him to the cross aisle, leaned on a filing cabinet and watched, to make sure that he was going.

He took his time but he finally went through the big doors into the hall. I gave him another full minute in case he got the idea of slipping back in. No one showed up. I turned back toward the file Johnny Itsuko had been working on.

The file was open again. I looked beyond it. I was in time to see the tail of a checked sport coat disappear around the end of the row of cabinets. I started running.

I reached the corner. I had a brief glimpse of a man scuttling crab-fashion through the door that led to the service stairs.

I let him go. I had recognized him. And I knew where to find him. He was Hoxey Creen, punk-about-town. He existed on the fringe of the underworld. He’d been a dope pusher, a pornography peddler, a pimp, a numbers runner. The last two years he had lived off a woman who owned a Hill Street espresso house called the Blue Beagle.

And for almost all of those two years he had been one of my most useful stoolies.

I stood and looked at the door he had gone through and wondered what he was doing around here. He wasn’t usually seen where he might run into the law. But he had been here, and he must have been watching Johnny Itsuko—or me.

I returned to the file drawer. There was nothing in it but real estate transfers. I could see where a thick wad of papers had been crammed down, crumpling the flimsy paper of some of the legal documents. But that something was gone.

And Hoxey had taken it.

I was curious to know if the regular contents of the drawer had any meaning, or if Johnny had chosen it at random as a place to hide the papers. I decided those contents might have meaning after I read the label on the front of the drawer. The papers inside concerned Hill Street properties.

Hill Street is Puget City’s Skid Row. Once the big fir logs cut from the timber that covered the hill had been skidded down it to the mill on the shore of Puget Sound. Then the city grew and Hill Street became the central business district. The city grew even more, and slowly, inevitably, it deteriorated. Today it is a collection of honky tonks, cheap flophouses, cut-rate businesses, and pawnshops. It is also where the majority of Puget City’s criminals hang out, and where the few petty rackets the administration had left as a safety valve flourished.

And Hill Street is the most likely place for a Combine man to buy a legitimate business as a front while he sets up a big racket.

I pulled out the crumpled papers. They were old. I put them back and dug deeper. I was nearly to the rear of the drawer when I hit the mother lode.

I saw why Johnny Itsuko had been interested in this particular drawer. I was holding a legal-looking document concerning a piece of Hill Street property owned by Griselda Cletis.

The document stated that a man named Archibald Archer had applied for, and received, permission from the city to remodel the old Puget City Saloon into a restaurant. The remodeling had been in process just under a month.

Archibald Archer’s address at the time of his initial application was given as Los Angeles, California.

A hollow ball of cold started to form inside me. I was beginning to follow Ritter’s reasoning when he made connections between the Combine and myself.

Because Griselda Cletis was McKeon’s woman as far as Puget City was concerned. She had inherited the Hill Street property from her former employer, a would-be rackets boss. And she had recently leased it to a man who came from the home base of the Combine.

Ritter had the kind of mind that believed in guilt by association. Griselda had worked for a crook, so she probably was a little crooked herself. McKeon warmed her bed now and then, so he was probably crooked too.

This was the kind of evidence Ritter could use against me if I faced a hearing on charges of collusion with criminals. And my having spent the last two weeks vacationing with Griselda in California wouldn’t help my case any.

I rubbed my arms where Griselda’s fingers had left bruises. I put the document back in the file. It was time for me to have a talk with Archibald Archer from Los Angeles.

And to have more than just a talk with Hoxey Creen.

2

I
WAS
hurrying past the Record Room counter toward the door when the girl on duty called to me.

“Telephone, Mr. McKeon.”

I took the phone she handed me. Stephanie’s voice came out of the receiver. “I was afraid I’d miss you. You left your suitcase here.”

“How about taking it to your place? I’ll pick it up later.”

“All right,” she said. “But I have a message for you.” Her voice dropped almost to a whisper. “ ‘Tool shed on the alley. Six-thirty.’ Does that mean anything, Jeff?”

The only man I knew who owned a tool shed on an alley was Johnny Itsuko.

“It could mean plenty. Thanks, babydoll.”

“You’ll still come at eight o’clock?”

“You’ve got my suitcase. If I want to shave tomorrow, I’ll have to show up tonight.”

She laughed and hung up. I handed the telephone back to the girl behind the counter and took off. I had a cab take me to Third and Salmon. I got my car out of the garage there and headed down Third toward Hill Street.

I made a right on Hill and drove slowly toward Second. I parked across the street from the Blue Beagle on the corner of Second, and spent a few minutes gaping at the changes that had taken place in the past month.

Eight weeks ago this had been one of the most forlorn blocks on Hill Street. Joe Rome’s Forum, which had sprawled from Third halfway down to Second, had been boarded up and desolate. The old Puget City Saloon, below the Forum, had been just another old building waiting sadly to be condemned and torn down. The only building in the block that had been occupied was the two-story brick one that had once been the Puget City Bank. In it a one-time local debutante had established a mangy espresso coffee house on the main floor and an equally mangy apartment above. She shared the apartment with Hoxey Creen.

When we were still having fun in the California sun, Griselda had told me she had managed to lease the old buildings and that there was to be some remodeling. But I hadn’t expected changes like the ones I now looked at.

Joe Rome’s Forum was bright with new paint and a flashing neon sign: C
ALUMET’S
P
LACE
. The penny arcade with its “movies-as-you-like-'em” section at the rear, the pool hall, and the big barroom all were doing a rushing business.

Below the Forum, the Puget City Saloon had been given back its original appearance. Now a discreet sign over the main door read: T
HE
G
AY
N
INETIES.

This was Archibald Archer’s place. He must have been well heeled; the work he had done on the old place couldn’t have cost much less than fifty thousand dollars.

Below the Gay Nineties was Theodora Jenner’s espresso house, the Blue Beagle. The dirty red brick front had been completely changed. The bricks were now painted an electric blue and the door and window frames were outlined in sparkling white.

I crossed the street and pushed open the heavy front door of the Blue Beagle. I fumbled my way through a dimly lighted foyer to a curtained archway. Behind the curtains was a high-ceilinged, vaultlike room. It was crammed with tiny tables. At one end was a small stage occupied by a lone male. He sat on a straight chair, his head thrown back. His face was twisted with some deep, inner agony as he beat a pair of bongo drums in his lap.

I peered through the gloom for Teddy Jenner. It was only a little after five o’clock and too early for the type of crowd the Blue Beagle drew. I worked my way through the tables to the waitress.

“Teddy around?” I asked.

“Upstairs resting for the rush,” she said. Her voice was indifferent.

I threaded a path to the rear of the room and went out a back door. It led me past restrooms to another door. This one opened into a small areaway. I could go straight ahead and out into the alley or I could turn right and climb a flight of stairs to the apartment Hoxey and Teddy Jenner shared.

I took the stairs.

I hiked down a dim hallway. Things had changed here too. The once chipped and stained plaster walls had been repaired and repainted dazzling white. The woodwork was bright blue.

Except for one jarring note: the next to the last door opening onto the hall was painted blood red. The panel was decorated with a replica of an obscene souvenir from Pompeii for a door knocker. On my last visit, this door had led into a storeroom.

The last door was the way I remembered it. Bright blue paint with two white planets circling a golden sun stood out on the central panel. The planets symbolized Teddy Jenner’s idea of herself and Hoxey Creen. She had never told me what the sun stood for.

I tried the knob. The door was locked. I rapped. A hollow echo came back to me. I took out my key ring and went to work on the simple lock. It clicked back.

The air smelled sourly of unwashed clothes. A rumpled bed with dirty sheets filled one corner of the room. A pile of unwashed men’s socks and underwear littered the sheets. An open door gave me a glimpse of the combination bathroom-kitchen. A two-burner hotplate sat on top of the flush tank.

There was no sign of Hoxey or Teddy Jenner. I stared around at the filth. I wondered how a woman like Teddy could have put up with Hoxey’s habits for a week, let alone two years. She had a background of money and a finishing school education. Yet outside of the time she had broken Hoxey’s nose with one of her big fists, I had never heard of them having any disagreement.

A door out in the hall opened. Teddy Jenner’s husky voice said to someone, “Now get lost and let me rest.”

A man’s voice answered, “What’s got into you, baby? This is no way to treat me.”

Teddy sounded tired. “Just give it a rest and cut out.”

The other voice turned hot with anger. “Nobody gives me the brush. Not even you.”

Teddy cursed in a harsh, pain-filled voice. I stepped into the hall. I was in time to see Teddy pry a man’s hands loose from her arms. She pushed him away with her right hand and then drove a straight left into his face.

I hadn’t expected the man Teddy brushed off to be Hoxey Creen. But I hadn’t expected him to be Nick Calumet, either. But he was—sleek, lean features, patent leather hair, padded sport jacket, and hard, dark, cold eyes.

Calumet straightened from the wall. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and blotted his nose. Neither he nor Teddy looked my way. I stayed where I was and watched.

Calumet put the handkerchief away. He reached in another pocket. He came up with a knife. His thumb twitched and eight inches of thin, sharp-looking steel glittered in the dim light.

Teddy reached behind her for the doorknob. Calumet stepped away from the wall. He lifted his arm, getting the knife into throwing position.

I said, “Nick!”

He swiveled his head toward me. His eyes were glittering, like a man too far gone in anger or hate to know what he was seeing.

I said, “Four inches of steel is the legal limit in this town. Put that shiv away.”

He seemed to see me. He said, “She hit me.” His voice was thick with shock.

I said, “I’ll ask the DA to pass a law to protect defenseless men like you.” I took a step toward him. “Now give me that pigsticker.”

He dropped his arm as if he might snap the knife shut and hand it over to me. Suddenly he lunged forward. The knife came straight up in slashing position.

I dropped and dove low. Calumet twisted to the side as my shoulder hit him at the hip. His movement whipped me around. He brought up a knee against my ribs. I lost my grip on his legs and rolled on the dirty floor.

He did a running broad jump over my body and headed for the stairs. I came to my feet. I said, “All right, let‘s you and the knife both go downtown.

He stopped and looked back at me. His anger was worked out. His eyes laughed at me. “You couldn’t get an unlicensed dog arrested these days, McKeon.”

He turned and ran on down the stairs.

Teddy Jenner had her back pressed against the bright red door. She was wearing a bright blue outfit. The color made her skin look muddy.

She wasn’t an unattractive woman. Her face was a little square and blunt-featured, but it was feminine enough given the right surroundings. Now, though, she had her hair chopped short in a mannish haircut, and the loose smock hid what little bust she owned.

I said, “Do you want him arrested, Teddy?”

She looked at me as if she didn’t enjoy what she saw. “Since when do you do me favors, McKeon?”

I said, “All right. Let it go. Open the door and go sit down before you fall down.”

She rubbed the knuckles she’d used on Calumet against her hip. “I’m fine where I am,” she said. “Don’t think I’m going to be grateful. I didn’t ask for your help.”

I said, “All I want is the same thing I usually come here for: answers. Hoxey?”

“I don’t keep track of him,” she said. “This is my pad.” She rapped her fingers against the red door.

“Don’t tell me Hoxey tossed you out.”

“I did the moving, not Hoxey,” she said in a flat voice.

“And invited Calumet in to take Hoxey’s place?”

“Don’t ask me what he came here for. I didn’t invite him.”

I took out a cigaret and lit it. “I heard what he said. And it sounded like a lover’s quarrel.” I quoted, “ ‘Nobody brushes me off. Not even you.’ ”

Teddy shrugged. “I still don’t know what he was talking about, McKeon. I never let him get close enough to have to brush him off.”

“Maybe I’ll ask Nick what he meant,” I said.

“You do that.” She sounded tired. “Get your questions asked, McKeon. I need my rest.”

I shifted tactics. “Quite a job you’ve done on the Blue Beagle, Teddy. What did you do, poison your family for an inheritance?”

She looked coldly at me from bright hazel eyes. “I got some money from an aunt who died. Is that a crime?”

“I can check that.”

“Go ahead,” she said.

“You come into money. Nick Calumet comes into money. Two months ago, he was running a six-movie-machine amusement parlor. Now he’s reopened Joe Rome’s Forum. What gives?”

“I didn’t ask him,” she said.

I said, “Crap. Hoxey knows everything that goes on around Hill Street.”

“Then ask Hoxey.”

“Don’t get hard with me, Teddy. You’re still down in my book. You and Hoxey both. I can hand the DA the evidence any time and get you both sent up.”

Her shoulders sagged against the door. “Damn you,” she said dully. “When do I stop paying for one lousy mistake? So I did a little wallowing in the pigpen. I outgrew it. Can’t you let me alone.”

“I don’t call putting on the kind of shows you did up here a little wallowing. Not when your audience was half high school kids.”

She said, “Hoxey asked me to. We needed the money.”

“You were over twenty-one and big enough to say no, even to Hoxey.” I dropped my cigaret and stepped on it. “Now let’s start over again. Where is Hoxey?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice was less belligerent now. “I swear I don’t. He lives in his room; I live in mine.”

“But you know where to find him. You do just that—and tell him I want to see him.”

“All right,” she said resignedly.

“Now let’s get Nick Calumet straight.”

“So help me,” Teddy said, “I don’t know what he was talking about. He came up and walked in on me. He acted as if I’d invited him into my bed. I told him to get out. You heard the rest.”

Teddy was a good actress. Her eyes were deep-set and hard to read in the dim light. I didn’t know whether to buy her story or not. I said, “Where did he get the money to expand?”

“He sold his other place. I heard he made a killing on the horses. But that was strictly a low-grade rumble.”

“Let’s get back to Hoxey. Why did you split with him?”

She got up enough energy to glare at me. “I don’t give a damn what Hoxey does. Not any more.”

“And just what is he doing?” I asked.

She took a cigaret from her pocket and plastered the filter end against her lower lip. She let the cigaret hang there while she talked. “He’s working for Nick Calumet. I don’t know what he does.”

I didn’t believe her. No one who had been so completely gone on a man as Teddy on Hoxey Creen could shrug him off so easily.

“Why do you let Hoxey keep on living next door?”

“His rent is paid,” she said. “Now stop bugging me. I want to rest.”

“When did that new place next door come to life? Who’s this Archibald Archer?”

“Arch?” I thought I saw the flicker of a smile move her mouth. “He’s from California. He used to be a wrestler. Then he opened a restaurant.” Her eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “I hear it that he met your girlfriend and she conned him into leasing the old dump and moving up here.”

“If you’re trying to make me sore, forget it. Griselda and I haven’t any ropes tying us together. What she does is her business. Now go on about Arch.”

Teddy paused to light the cigaret hanging from her lip. “That’s it,” she said. “He came, he spent a wad of money, he conquered.” She seemed pleased.

“You sound happy for him.”

“I should be. He gets the moneygrubbers from the hill. They come down here slumming. They buy his six-buck dinner and eat it in a private dining room. They leave and drop in here for a look at the beatniks. They spend a dollar a pot for coffee. And they repeat. Why shouldn’t I be happy?”

“Is that all Arch does, run a restaurant?”

“What do you expect, McKeon, dirty movies?”

“I’ll leave that up to you and Hoxey. And Calumet. What did Calumet mean by that crack he made when he left?”

I threw the question at her fast. And she wasn’t ready for it. She couldn’t hide the pleased expression. Or maybe she didn’t want to.

She said, “Another rumble. I heard that you’re out on your can downtown, McKeon. You’re the big zero these days. Pure nothing.”

I didn’t want to spoil her pleasure. “All right. I’ll ask Hoxey the rest of my questions.” I started for the stairs, saying, “And tell him he sees me or else.”

She said, “Or else what?”

“Or else he can go up for the long stretch. He’s fallen three times already. Just remind him of that.”

She waited until I reached the top of the stairs. Then she said softly, viciously, “Someday, McKeon, you’re going to come down to Hill Street and they’ll have to carry you away in a box. And I hope I get the chance to help put you in it!”

BOOK: The Duchess of Skid Row
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