The Gutter and the Grave (9 page)

“Not too long.”

“How long?”

“This is my first case, really. A promotion, sort of. Before this, I was doing…modeling.”

“Oh.” She didn’t have to elaborate. Dennis had been using her as one of his professional correspondents. Fran West was one of the ladies who, fairly undraped, had their pictures taken in bed when the door was shattered. I visualized her fairly undraped. The picture was convincing. There was nothing professional looking about her, no hardness, no slick painted exterior. She looked like a nice girl—and maybe she was.

“I can see the wheels clicking,” she said. “You’re drawing the wrong conclusions.”

“Am I?”

“Insufficient evidence,” she said, and she smiled.
“An investigator should never build a case on piecemeal facts, unquote. A gem of wisdom from the great man himself.”

“Dennis?”

“Dennis. To set you straight, Mr. Cordell, I did professional modeling. I hesitated on the word because most people think of fashion models when the word ‘modeling’ is mentioned. I’d be a little incongruous as a fashion model. To model clothes, you need an exquisitely boned face, no bosom, a boy’s hips, and long thin legs. I’m plain as mud, and I run to fat. I couldn’t model a chemise because I’d fill out the damn thing.”

“What kind of modeling
did
you do?”

“Cheesecake.” She paused. “You don’t need an Egyptian goddess face for cheesecake. Nobody looks at the faces in a cheesecake magazine.”

“Why’d you leave modeling?”

“I went into a secondhand magazine shop once, and I saw the kind of men who buy the girlie mags. I decided to make an honest woman of myself. I’m very strong. I took a course in Judo, and then I applied for a job with the city police. I failed the written examination. I guess I’m pretty stupid. Anyway, I finally got a job with Dennis. Actually, I’d probably be a decoy for subway mashers if I was a lady cop. This way, I really get to do some investigation.”

“Which brings us to Johnny Bridges.”

“If you like.” She shrugged. “Can I get you a drink or something?”

“I’d like a drink fine.”

She went into the kitchen and came back with a fifth of bourbon. “I never drink before three in the afternoon,” she said. “A standing rule of mine. Bourbon all right?”

“Bourbon’s fine. What are your other standing rules?”

“They’d bore you. Besides, you want to talk about Johnny Bridges, don’t you?”

“It’s rare that I get the occasion to drink socially with a nice girl.”

“Why, thank you.”

“And the rules?”

“Rule one: never touch a drink before three in the afternoon. Rule two: never wear a girdle. Rule three: never invite a man up for a nightcap unless I plan to let him stay the night. Rule four: be a lady. Rule five: except when it’s impossible.”

I laughed. Fran laughed with me.

“That’s a good set of rules,” I said, still laughing. I was beginning to like her very much. There was honesty and freshness about her. Freshness is a thing cultivated by women who, once all the gook is washed away, are about as fresh as the Roman Senate. And because it is a cultivated look and attitude, it loses all semblance of freshness. Fran was truly fresh. Honesty is something you can’t cultivate. You’re either honest or you’re not. And she was. Or at least I thought so.

“What are your rules?” she said, and she handed me the bourbon. “Or do you have any?”

“I have some.”

“You have to have five. If you don’t, they’re not really rules, they’re only daily reminders.”

“Rule number one,” I said, “take a drink whenever it’s offered, regardless of the time of day. Rule two: never wear a girdle. Rule three: never call a proposition a nightcap. Rule four: always recognize a lady. Rule five: except where it’s impossible.”

“Am I recognizable?” Fran asked.

“You are indeed.”

“Thank you again. I think there may be a poet under that Brooks Brothers suit.”

I laughed again, this time at my own expense. The suit I was wearing was as close to being Brooks Brothers as I was close to being Adolph Menjou. “I haven’t laughed this way in a long time,” I said.

“Good. People should laugh, don’t you think? There’s too much seriousness in the world. Maybe I will have a drink after all.”

“Rule number six,” I said. “Never break rules one to five.”

Fran smiled. “And rule number seven: never mix business with pleasure. Shall we talk about Johnny Bridges?”

“If you like.”

“I’d rather talk about drinking or laughing, but Dennis isn’t paying us for that, is he?”

“No, he’s not.”

“Okay. Johnny Bridges. I was in the office when he came in that day. Said he was in love with a married
woman whose husband refused to give her a divorce. Wanted us to follow the man until we got something on him.”

“The man was Dom Archese.”

“Right.”

“You followed him?”

“I did. Every day.”

“Did you get anything on him?”

“Plenty.”

“Like?”

“Like a little blonde he was seeing a great deal of. Met her regularly.”

“A blonde? Who?”

“A girl named Laraine Marsh.”

I took a gulp at the bourbon. “Christine’s sister? Dom was seeing
her
?”

“I didn’t know she was Christine’s sister,” Fran said. “That complicates it a little, doesn’t it?”

“More than you know. Are you sure Dom was seeing her?”

“Regularly. Once or twice a week.”

“How cozy were they?”

“Hard to say. It looked legit, the usual Friday or Saturday night date stuff. But he also spent a lot of time in her apartment. We were going to put a tap on her phone, just to find out exactly how chummy they were. Now that Dom’s dead…” Fran shrugged.

“Did you tell this to Bridges?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Last week sometime. We suggested the wiretap, and he said he wanted to think it over. Truthfully, he seemed to be losing his enthusiasm for the whole project. I can’t understand why. He wanted Dom to divorce Christine, and we were working in that direction. But he didn’t seem too impressed with what we’d told him. Maybe he was falling
out
of love. It’s possible.”

“And sometimes easier than falling
in
love.”

“Sometimes,” Fran said.

“Well, I don’t know what to think,” I said honestly. “You’re sure Dom Archese was seeing a lot of Laraine Marsh?”

“Positive.”

“And you didn’t know she was Christine’s sister?”

“No. I guess I goofed, huh? She went to the apartment several times, but I figured it was to see Dom. A nice sister to have, huh?”

“Very nice.”

“Do you know her?”

“Yes, I know her.”

“Would you call her a lady?”

“Insufficient evidence,” I said, smiling. “An investigator should never build a case on piecemeal facts, unquote.”

“The way the police built their case against you?” Fran asked, unsmiling.

“Huh?”

“It clicked a little while back. I read about you in the papers.”

“Okay,” I said.

“I don’t think you’re working for Dennis,” Fran said.

“No?”

“No. He once told me about a guy who broke his nose. Seems to me your name came up.”

“That’s entirely likely.”

“Who
are
you working for?”

“I’m not really working. I’m simply trying to help someone.”

“You’re an appealing guy, Matt. I’ll tell you why. Would you like to know why?”

“Sure.”

“Every woman in the world knows you took a beating from a beautiful and exciting woman. God, the papers had a field day with her pictures, didn’t they?”

“Yes,” I said tiredly.

“All right, it still hurts you to talk about it. Shall we stop?”

“I’d rather.”

“I’d rather not,” Fran said, “and this all ties in with what is your basic appeal to women everywhere. You’re a man who’s been hurt, and by a beautiful gal. Aside from the natural instinct of wanting to mother you, there’s also the challenge. It’s a challenge no real woman can ignore. It’s a challenge to her competitive spirit and her femaleness and her survival pattern. Do you know what the challenge is?”

“What?” I said.

“The challenge is whether or not she can make you forget…what was her name?”

“Toni.”

“Toni McAllister. Right. The challenge is whether she can put out the torch, whether her arms, her body, her lips, will make you forget a woman who—to you—was the most…”

“Let’s drop it,” I said.

“Your reluctance enhances the challenge,” Fran said. “You’re a very appealing guy, Matt.”

“And you’re a very unflattering gal,” I told her. “I don’t like to think of myself as forbidden fruit that will nurture the ego of a dame with an inferiority complex.”

“Inferiority has nothing to do with it. Hell, the battle is a daily one. It even goes on between daughters and their own mothers. You don’t know very much about women.”

“I guess not.”

“You can learn,” she said. “I could teach you. I’m a pretty smart girl.”

“There’s just one thing I’d like to know,” I said.

“Mmm?”

“How come you failed that police examination?”

Fran smiled, and then allowed the smile to become a laugh. “You threw down your gauntlet to every woman in the world the day you beat up that jerk and allowed yourself to be destroyed by something that happens every day everywhere. And you can’t blame women for wanting to pick it up.”

“Are you picking up the gauntlet, Fran?”

“I’d like to, if you’d let me. Getting you to forget
that bitch would be the most creative thing any woman could do.”

“Have you tried having a baby?” I said.

“Only once,” she answered honestly and soberly. “It didn’t work out.” She paused. “I’m not the original laughing girl, Matt. I’ve had it, too, in spades.” She paused again. “I know how to love. I love very deeply when I do.”

“Good.”

“And the gauntlet is still on the ground.”

“We’ll pick it up some time,” I said.

With complete honesty, Fran West said,
“When?”

“Not tonight, Josephine.”

She laughed. “Perhaps I should add that I also think you’re a hell of a nice guy. Or is that necessary?”

“It helps my ego.” I rose. “Thanks for the bourbon, and the hospitality, and the psychology lecture. Thanks, too, for seeing through my Dennis Knowles ruse and listening to me, anyway. You’re a nice kid, Fran.”

“Thanks.” She led me to the door. As I walked out, she said, “You forgot something, didn’t you?”

“What’s that?”

“Your glove. It’s in the middle of my living room floor.”

“I didn’t forget it,” I said, and I left.

* * *

We were playing the classic game called Murder.

Any number can play. You assemble your guests and you hand out a playing card to each person. The
person who receives the Ace of Spades is the murderer. The lights are then turned out. Every player is free to move about anywhere in the darkened house. When the murderer sees his opportunity, he strikes. He taps his victim on the shoulder and hands him or her the Ace of Spades. The victim counts to ten slowly and then screams, giving the murderer a chance to get away from the scene of the crime. The lights are turned on, and the questioning begins. The questioning is handled by a person who was designated District Attorney before the lights were turned out and the murder committed.

The rules of the game are simple. The D.A. can ask any question he chooses. The object is, of course, to find the murderer. The murderer, having given his Ace of Spades to the victim, is the only player in the room without a playing card. When someone is accused, he must either show his card or admit he is the murderer, having no card. An essential element of the game is that every player must tell the exact truth when the D.A. questions him. Every player, that is, except one. The murderer. The murderer can lie to his heart’s content. He can, for example, say, “I was in the kitchen leaning against the sink. I was nowhere near the living room where the murder was committed.” He can be tripped up if everyone else tells the truth. Another player may have seen him in the living room shortly before the terrible deed was done. Usually, after a half-hour or so of questioning, the murderer has trapped himself in a web of lies. The truth, as
being spoken by every other player in the game, is his undoing.

We were playing Murder.

There was only one difficulty.

Every player in the game seemed to be lying.

There was an added difficulty.

This wasn’t a game.

I went back to the East Side and found a bar. I had no intention of getting drunk. I was going to pass a quiet afternoon until quitting time at the five and ten. Then I would go to Laraine’s apartment and we would have dinner together and maybe we would make love afterwards and then eat a little more, the way the Romans used to do, and then make more love, and then I would ask her how come she’d been seeing Dom Archese, and how come she’d told me her acquaintance with him was a casual-meeting-in-the-street kind of thing?

I had one drink, and then another.

“How come, Laraine,” I would say, “you lied to me?”

I had a third drink and a fourth.

How come you are picking up my gauntlet, Laraine, I would say, but at the same time you’re telling me a flock of lies which can only make my job harder, huh? Or is this a part of the challenge? Screw up the battered shamus, spread confusion in the ranks, leave him doubting his long-unused investigatory powers, leave him sure of one thing and one alone, the woman in his arms, the one real thing in the world, more real than the ghost of Toni McAllister for sure, more real
than a pack of liars and thieves and murderers, forget, forget, forget, I’ll help you by confusing you, I’m a lying little bitch responding to the challenge of the International Society of Cuckold Pacifiers, come love me, Matt Cordell, come forget, come leave Johnny Bridges to rot in jail and twitch in the electric chair, nothing matters but the challenge, I’ll make you whole again, I’ll bedazzle the living be-Jesus out of you, come to my arms while I lie
with
you and
to
you, come.

I had a few more drinks.