Love Me or Kill Me (The Cable Denning Mystery Series Book 2)

by James P. Alsphert

  By this time, Misty Sheridan was a pretty big draw. Of course she didn’t rival Honey in her heyday, but nonetheless, Misty was good and coming up in the world of entertainment. I wouldn’t be surprised if at some point, she’d get a recording contract, and like Honey, show up on a radio show or two. I walked in and the place was noisy with the usual din of people pretending to like each other, lots of laughter, drinking, smoking and a few couples out on that huge dance floor, smooching as they twirled around to Misty’s song. When I came in she was singing a nice version of Jerome Kern’s They Didn’t Believe Me—and believe me—the way Misty sang it, there were probably very few men in the room who didn’t have a bulge in their pants! Misty had the gift of sincere and steamy, the kind of gal you wanted to take home and ravage without mussing her makeup! I know that sounds strange, but it was the feeling I had. Her large, welcoming full breasts were having a coming out party in that wonderful black-satin dress of hers, the sensual lips and flowing hair, those blue eyes that looked at and through you before she even opened her mouth to utter her first notes. Yeah, that was Misty Sheridan. Even her voice was misty, a kind of breathiness that could melt you like a popsicle on a hot summer afternoon.

  As soon as she saw me she brightened up with a smile and then directed one the verses of the song toward me: “And when I tell them….and I’m certainly going to tell them…that you’re the man whose girl someday I’ll be…they’ll never believe me…they’ll never believe me…that from this great big world…you’ve chosen me….” I applauded and whistled when she had finished. She took her bow and came down to greet me. “Hello, there. Long time no see. I always remember you, for some reason. The gumshoe detective who loves music—"

  “—don’t forget the pretty babes part. That goes along with it, you know, the kind who sizzles underneath and comes up as a real woman—but—well, good to see you Misty Sheridan,” I said as I greeted her.

  “Of course…I hope I fit the bill now and then.” She extended her hand. It was warm. “Uh…..let me see…you know, I still have a card of yours right by my telephone—in my bedroom. Cable—that was it, wasn’t it?

  “Bingo! Thanks for remembering. I guess I should feel privileged—I mean, being in your bedroom and all.”

  “Yes…no man has ever shared my bedroom.” She looked around. “Last time you were here, you were with a lovely little Mexican number.” I winced. “Are you no longer an item—you seemed—well, you seemed very much in love with her.”

  “She…uh, she died…some time ago,” I uttered, a stab of pain cutting through me.

  Misty Sheridan registered shock on her face. “Oh, Cable! How could I have known? I’m so sorry…”

  “Don’t worry, kid, it’s nobody’s fault. It wasn’t even her fault. She got a lethal dose of leukemia and it took her out pretty quick.”

  I didn’t know why I could talk so freely to Misty about Adora’s death. For whatever reasons, it just seemed okay. “If there’s anything I can do…or be…for you…” She started falling into my eyes, as if the news of Adora’s death opened up a channel for her to walk inside me. “I always thought we would be good friends, Cable. I think I even suggested that once. But you were with some other lady then. I think she was a singer?”

  “Yeah, let’s not talk about my past anymore, okay? Tell me, how have you been. I see you’re still packin’ ‘em in here.”

  “Lucky, I guess. I think a lot of single men like you come in here to the bar and think I might be available—and they tell friends, and some of those friends turn out to be couples and before long, wow! I’ve got a nice following.”

  “All based upon your sex and talent…” I said, looking over that wonderful body and face of hers.

  “Sort of, I guess. Say, it’s Wednesday night and I get off early. How about a sandwich somewhere together afterward?”

  “Sure, if you can stand my rough edges and private dick personality.”

  “I kinda like your rough edges, mister…and as for the dick part, unfortunately, I have to pass on that. So, it looks like friendship to me…”

  “Will you sing a song for me before you call it quits for the night?”

  “Sure, if I know it. Which one?”

  “I need something happy just about now—and a little make-believe. How about a nice version of Wrap Your Troubles in Dreams? I’ve had a lot of those, lately— troubles, I mean.”

  “Absolutely, Cable—good choice, one of my favorites.”

  When Misty began the song, I could feel a new resurgence of life in me. Her energy was positive, unique and warm, as if it poured all over me like a bucket of melted sunshine. Even her feminine sensuality reached me in a new way, as if it were saying, “Wake up, wake up, you sleepy head…” A big burst of applause followed her song and I was proud to know this young lady who would figure in my life in ways I couldn’t yet know.

  Misty’s friendship was ideal for me at this juncture of my life. We walked to a little bar on Santa Monica Boulevard called Sam’s because Misty loved the pastrami sandwiches Sam served late at night. We sat in a semi-lighted booth and she looked so pretty there with her fresh complexion, light-blue shimmering earrings and that low-cut black gown that bulged out her cleavage in a most appealing way.

  After some idle conversation, I dared to ask her a personal question. “I’ve never met your lover, have I?”

  “You mean my partner?”

  “Yeah, I guess I mean that—I don’t know, I get them mixed up. After all, they are sort of one and the same, aren’t they?

  “Well, in our case, perhaps a bit different. Her name is Edie Clason. She was my very first—and only—singing tutor. I was seventeen and she was thirty-seven. I can’t believe it, but now I’m twenty-eight and she’s forty-eight. She’s beautiful inside, like starbursts of love, energy, music. She was born in France and became a cabaret chanteuse when she was seventeen. She was an older woman’s protégé like me. But those days when economic bad times happened—even worse than we’re having here now—Edie turned to alcohol, cocaine and abusive men. She became this hard-looking woman, wrinkled with a low growl of a voice—but always full of genuine emotion that—that would make you cry.” Misty took her napkin and dabbed her eyes. “I had experienced a very violent sexual assault by a step-father when I was thirteen. From that day on I swore off men, that not another man would ever touch me again.”

  She paused while the smiling Sam placed our pastrami sandwiches in front of us. Then Misty looked into my eyes. “Are you okay with this—I mean, the gory details and all? I don’t even know why I’m telling this to you, I hardly—"

  “—it’s okay, Misty. I’m a good listener—and remember, I’m also a private investigator and hear that kinda shit all the time—and you can trust me,” I said, putting my hand on hers across the table. “I think we’re going to be friends, which I admit is rare for man and woman—especially as young as we are—anyway, go on.”

  “There isn’t much more, really. Since Edie and I had similar experiences with the opposite sex, we talked it over and she told me she had found far superior sexual satisfaction with women. So we tried it, I liked it—and we committed to each other. And here we are,” she concluded, taking a deep breath and letting it out before taking up her sandwich.

  “And obviously Edie Clason is an excellent singing coach, because she did such a fine job on you. I even like your sensual interpretations.”

  “Thank you. Yes, the best. She understands nuance and color in the tone. She says your heart can be in your—your, uh, between your legs sometimes as well as in your chest and head. What are we communicating when we sing? Every song can’t be sexual-romantic. But most of the stuff I do is because that’s what sells to all the horny, anxious men in the audience fantasizing about me singing in bed to them. And it makes money for the club.”

  I laughed. “Yeah, you got that right, sister! I was watching them tonight. I’m sure there were a lotta bulging trousers. Lust comes in a lot of different colors, d
oesn’t it?”

  “And what about you? Were you out there lusting for me tonight?”

  “You bet. Yep, the old Cable Denning was thinking all the things every other man was thinking and I still kept my pants on.”

  She tittered slightly. “Is there a new Cable Denning that makes him think differently?”

  “Let’s just say a healing Cable Denning. I’m not sure how I’m going to feel about my sexual self down the line. I’ve heard it can be a long journey. I’ve also heard that sometimes it ends up on the rocks early because the psyche has suffered such trauma that it doesn’t want to go there again. Sort of like your experiences that shunted you from male to female.”

  “Somehow I can’t feature you as less than sexual with women, Cable. It’s in your voice, the way you touch, the way you carry yourself and your self-assured manner.”

  “All that, eh? Thanks, Misty—even if only half of it is true, I consider myself a lucky man. So what else do two intelligent people talk about beside sex in 1933? Politics?

  “Ugh!”

  “Religion?”

  “Give me a break.”

  “Travel?”

  “Maybe a little warmer…”

  “Philosophy, metaphysics?”

  “Could be closer…”

  “Reading poetry to each other?”

  “Only on a cold night cuddled up by the fire.”

  “Hmmm…what about…what about music!”

  “Bingo!” she laughed.

  We were having a good time and I could feel Misty warming up to me. “Okay, now…what category of music?”

  “Well, my earliest exposure was Uncle Charles. He was the one who introduced me to the big guys with the big sounds. You know, Beethoven, Mozart, Tchaikovsky, Brahms, Bach. I love classical music to this day.”

  “How’d you get interested in Tin Pan Alley music?”

  “There was a black lady who came and cleaned our house twice a month. Gracie Munson Applebee was her name and she was in love with jazz and blues of the teens. She’d be in the kitchen wailing the blues or a spiritual of some sort and I loved her sound. I must have been eight, or maybe ten, when I fell in love with all those oldies. Then one day I was walking by a record shop and I heard Irving Berlin’s Always and I knew I would sing the rest of my life until I couldn’t anymore.”

  I started singing in my low, irregular baritone. “I’ll be loving you always, with a love that’s true, always…when the things you plan, need a helping hand, I will understand, always…”

  “You’ve got a good voice in there, Cable.” She seemed enchanted. “Do you know any more of the song? Nobody ever sings to me.”

  I continued as best I could. “Days may not be fair always…that’s when I’ll be there…always…not for just an hour, not for just a day, not for just a year…but always…”

  Misty Sheridan’s eyes were misting. I could tell I had reached a place deep inside that was new to her. Her intense blue eyes softened. “If I was ever going to—to love—or care for—for, uh, a man, I think it would be someone like you, Cable.”

  I looked at her as she reached her hand for mine in that semi-dark little booth in Sam’s joint. It was one of the moments you took a snapshot of, one that would live with you maybe the rest of your life. “Ehhh…you’re just sentimental, like me, a sucker for a good song,” I said, trying to get my ship back upright because it was starting to capsize with me in it. “And that’s quite a story you told me, babe. I kind of pegged you for the real thing. But, now that we’re on the precipice…one other category we kind of skipped over…”

  “And what’s that?” she chortled, taking a sip from her soda.

  “Love…even some guys have the ability to talk about that.”

  “Who knows what that is? We sort of talked about romantic love—which is sex hopefully attached to a little deep caring. What else is there? Yes, you can love a relative, a friend, maybe even someone from a distance. But I’m still not sure what love is.”

  “Well, let me see here…” I said, conjuring up a crystal ball on the table. “The Great Dennini sees three possibilities…first there’s falling in love, then there’s being in love, and last but not least, simply loving someone. What rings a bell with you, my little daisy?”

  She chuckled. “I don’t know. I guess you and I could simply love each other someday. I don’t think it’s instant. But falling in love is scary, I feel. You can’t control it and it sneaks up on you. I’ve seen it when it crashes and burns. It hurts like hell. Being in love is probably the most wonderful. Then there’s this perpetual state of being happy together because you wake up with that person beside you and you know you’re still in love with him—or her.”

  “Is that how you feel about Edie?”

  She suddenly drew serious. “Relationships change through the years. Ten years ago the erotic thrill of Edie teaching me new things was exciting. I loved it and she loved teaching me.” Then she stopped. A sadness came upon her face. “Now…? Now I don’t know…I don’t think I’ve ever fallen in love, Cable—or really been in love with someone. I had a short affair with some gal some years back. But when I saw how much it hurt Edie, I—I ended it.”

  “Hell, let’s be honest here. You’re in love with your music like I’m in love with being a private eye—now ain’t that right?”

  She smiled. “Yeah…I guess that’s really it. Music…singing…I’ve always been in love with singing. And the great songs that very professional men and women wrote.”

  “Where do you live?” I asked as I glanced at my watch. It was getting on to 1:00 a.m.

  “Near 38th and Crenshaw. Wanna ride me home?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  We hopped aboard the streetcar and jabbered away until we got off at 38th Street. I walked her to a decent apartment complex. “Come in for a quick nightcap? I’ve got real alcohol—not the bathtub crap.”

  “If you’ve got some English gin, I’m your customer.”

  Misty Sheridan lived in a neat and modest apartment. She poured me a gin, then she boiled some water and had a hot whiskey with honey in a heated snifter. “Good for the voice,” she said as we toasted. “Here’s to friends, Cable.”

  After about three or four of our drinks of choice, we were feeling no pain and telling all kinds of wonderful stories about our lives to each other. I trusted her and she trusted me. When I first came upon the extra-terrestrial possibility, she said she believed we were not alone in the universe, but had never seriously entertained the thought of meeting an alien. When I explained they can look just like us, she got a shiver. “You mean they can be that devious? So how do you know who’s who?”

  “They usually volunteer that info so you’ll know up front, once they come to trust you, you know.”

  She sat opposite me on a sofa. “Trust…that’s it, isn’t it, Cable? We’ve got to trust each other. If not, all there’ll be left on this planet is debris and a few fish. Maybe not even the fish.”

  “Yeah, you’re right, Misty Sheridan,” I said, feeling in my cups a bit more with each drink. “I’ll tell you what…someday…someday I’ll introduce you to an alien—would you like that?”

  “Yes! I’d love it.” She crossed the room and came to sit next to me on the love seat I was sitting on. “Now don’t get the wrong idea, Cable, but I’m going to kiss you.”

  “What for—to shut me up?”

  “Oh, no, no. To tell you I’m glad you’re here and that you’re becoming my friend.” She slugged down the rest of her honeyed whiskey and leaned toward me. She kissed me gently on my forehead. “Now…that’s for being my fan at the club.” Then she kissed my left cheek. “That’s for treating me at Sam’s.” She went around to my other cheek. “That’s for being such a wonderful conversationalist.” Then she brought her warm, full lips onto mine and stayed there, tenderly, for the longest time. It was as if she were a beautiful vampire, sucking out whatever essence she derived from kissing me. It also felt damn good. I think that kiss
surprised her, too. “And that…that’s…for…being a gentleman….”

  “Ahem! My—my pleasure,” I said, recovering from the warm, loving kiss Misty Sheridan had just planted on me.

  She felt her lips. “I think my lips are a little numb from the alcohol. I don’t drink much.” Then she looked at me with that face which launched a thousand songs into the land of romance and sensuality. “I’ve never—never kissed a man…like that before, Cable…”

  “So why now?” I asked, genuinely curious.

  “I—I don’t know, maybe a lot of things. Maybe because you’re brand new in my life. I’m excited that you’re here, or it’s the alcohol—or maybe I just like you. May I do it again?”

  I was rather bowled over. I didn’t expect the dame to pull this one out of her hat—at least not on our first outing together. “Why not? I can tell you now, my lips gave your kiss a definite affirmative—but I warn you, it might start reaching places…uh, uncomfortable for you.”

  She giggled. “I’m like a tease, aren’t I? Do you mind?

  “Not if the going price is right…”

  “I love the way you talk, Cable. Please…just sit there…still, with your eyes closed, okay?”

  I did so and Misty’s lips ever so slowly clasped onto mine again, only this time she increased the pressure until we could both feel sparks fly between us and I knew in that instant—maybe not today or tomorrow—but one day Misty Sheridan would kiss me like that and take her clothes off and take my hand and lead me into her bedroom.

  Just as slowly she pulled her lips back, but they kind of stuck together and it was hard for both of us to release from that kiss, as if lips had minds of their own. “Oh...!” she exclaimed as she finally pulled free. “Cable…I don’t know about you…who are you? Are you one of those aliens you were talking about? I feel dizzy.”

  I laughed. “Yeah, babe, I’m from Planet X, meaning ‘X’ marks the spot where you just kissed me. Uh…that, by the way, felt great.”