The man with the Racing Form had finished talking. The juke box had finished playing. The silence for a moment was almost absolute. From the table where the wino dozed came the sound of heavy breathing.
Then one of the boys said, “Okay, okay — make it straight Coke. We can have that, can’t we, Pops?”
“Any time, boys.” He put two glasses on the bar half-filled with cracked ice. He put a pair of bottles next to them.
The boys ignored the glasses. They took the bottles and went over to stand in front of the juke box.
I ordered another bottle of beer. The bartender shook his head and expelled his breath noisily. The wino dozed and the man at the end of the bar was making notes in a notebook, now. From the juke box came Stan Kenton.
The door opened again, and Sue Ellen came in. Her eyes went from the wino to the young men to me, to the wino again and back to me.
I said, “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“How romantic,” she said, and went past me to a doorway at the rear of the room. The door slammed behind her.
The bartender grinned and shook his head. “Ball of fire, ain’t she? I’ll put in a word for you.” He went over to the closed door and through it, leaving it open behind him.
I looked over to find one of the blue-jeaners staring at me steadily. I returned the stare, a game I hadn’t played since seventh grade. Ten seconds of that can make a man feel extremely adolescent but the kid wouldn’t look away.
Then I felt a tap on my shoulder, and turned to see the bartender standing next to me. “She’ll see you. I’ll show you the room.”
I followed him down a hallway past two washrooms to an open doorway near the end of the hall. It was a dressing room.
Sue Ellen said, “There’s no place to sit, but I suppose you won’t be staying long.”
She sat on a bench in front of a dressing table. The bartender went back down the hallway.
There were photographs around the mirror of the dressing table, and one of the photographs was of Rosa. There was a curtained area that probably served as a closet and there was an odor of stale sweat and talcum powder in the small room.
I said, “You knew Roger Scott, didn’t you?”
She shook her head. “I met him once, that’s all. He was with Rosa, and I met him.”
“Where’s Rosa now?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“The police are looking for her in connection with a murder. You’d be smart to tell everything you know about Rosa, Sue Ellen.”
“You’re not the police.”
“I know. And I haven’t told them about you, as I should have. I will, now.” I turned to go.
“Wait — ” she said.
I turned back and waited.
“What’s your beef with me, big boy? What’d I ever do to you?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Neither to me nor for me.”
“I owe you something? Why should I do anything for you?”
I didn’t answer. I turned to go, again.
And again she said, “Wait — ” And this time she added, “Damn you! Who the hell do you think you are?”
“Just a guy looking for Rosa Carmona,” I answered wearily. “I’m getting paid to find her. She means nothing to me beyond that. I learned this morning that you phoned Roger Scott yesterday and were given a message by his landlord. The message concerned Rosa. I am looking for Rosa so I came back to you. And you tell me you don’t know where she is, so I’m leaving. It’s all very simple, isn’t it?”
“Simple enough. But you have to put in a crack about calling copper. What was that for, sound effects?”
I said nothing.
She ran a hand into her bleached hair, removing a hair pin. She leaned forward and pulled off her shoes. She reached over for her purse on the dressing table.
I asked, “Nothing more to say?”
“Rosa’s a friend of mine. But the only one who knew where she was after she left her apartment was this Scott guy. All messages went through him. Rosa was afraid that if I knew where she was staying, Mira would scare it out of me. So help me, God, I don’t know where she is now. But I’m damned scared.”
“You don’t think anybody knows where she is now?”
“Whoever killed Scott might know.”
“You don’t think Rosa killed him?”
The blonde stared at me. “Gawd — no! Rosa kill somebody? Man, you’re way off base. Rosa is soft as dough. Regular little love bug, not a mean bone in her body.”
“Leading the life she led? She led a hard life.”
“Hard — ? Not if you like it, it isn’t hard. Hell, she didn’t need to hate any man. Rosa had all the men she wanted.”
“Who killed Scott, then? And why is Rosa hiding?”
Sue Ellen shook her head. “I’m no cop, mister. I’ve told you all I know about it, every bit of it.”
“Okay, Sue Ellen,” I said. “Thanks a lot.”
“Sure,” she said. “Drop back when you’re not playing Sam Spade. We’ll hoist a couple.”
“I might at that,” I said, and waved and winked.
The blue jean boys weren’t in the bar now, just the wino and horse player and the bartender. I nodded good-by to him and went out to where my flivver was waiting in the sun.
My flivver is what is known as the Victoria model and it has really deluxe upholstery in white and green plastic — tufted and buttoned and with beaded edges. I was so proud of it.
I opened the door and turned sick.
Somebody had really worked the upholstery over with a knife. It was slashed viciously, both the front and rear seats. It was ruined.
4
I WAS STILL STANDING IN THE STREET, the door on the driver’s side open, when a man in a car parked against the opposite curb came out from his car and over to mine.
He said, “I saw those kids open the door and they looked kind of fishy to me. They had a rod parked right next to it, and I took their license number.” He handed me a slip of paper.
“Thank you,” I said. “Could I have your name, sir?”
The man smiled. “Look, mister, I live in Venice. My kids go to Venice High School. I don’t want to tangle with those hot-rod hoodlums, and I don’t want my kids to.”
I didn’t argue with him. I’d really been lucky to get as much as I had. I thanked him again for the number.
At the Venice Station, I showed them the upholstery and told them about the kids in the barroom and left the license number with them. Then I drove over to the West Side Station, on Purdue Street.
Trask was at his desk, and his smile wasn’t too cool.
I told him about my day, right up to the slashed upholstery and the trip to the Venice Station. He leaned back in his chair, taking it all in with no great show of interest.
When I’d finished, he made a production out of taking a cigarette from a package, examining it, tapping it and lighting it.
“Take it over from where you picked up the package,” I said. “There wasn’t any film in the camera.”
He smiled. “Brock, what did I tell you yesterday?”
“To keep my nose clean.”
“That’s right. And now, because you didn’t, you have a car full of slashed upholstery.”
“And you might have something you didn’t know, too. Right?”
He shook his head. “Wrong. Everything you told me, I already knew. And Sergeant Pascal knows more than I do about the case. How do you figure you’re equipped to learn things we can’t?”
“I don’t know. I don’t see how an extra man on the case is going to hurt any, though. Don’t you want me to make a living, too?”
He studied the end of his cigarette.
“Not if you’re working for a client who’s interested in saving his sweetheart’s neck. You don’t think Mira would give her to us if he knew where she was, do you?”
“I suppose not. But I would. Remember, Lieutenant, I’m a citizen. That’s always first with me.”
/> “From where you sit now, maybe. But you’re in a dirty business, Brock, and you can’t stay clean in it, not if you want any new clients.”
“That’s cynical,” I said. “The Department’s in a dirty business, too.”
“But we get paid by the people,” he reminded me. “By all the people, not special interests, not people who have reasons to keep their troubles to themselves.”
“There are going to be private investigators,” I said. “I thought my reputation would make me one you’d be glad to see in the field. I guess I was wrong on that.” I stood up.
He raised a hand. “Easy now, Brock. Don’t go off half-cocked.”
“I’m not, Dave. I can only take so much of this Goddamned ham, though. You sit there like Ralph Bellamy in a cops and robbers movie, giving out with a Rotary luncheon speech. I don’t have to listen to that, I hope.”
He didn’t look at his cigarette this time and he didn’t smile. He said, “So long, Brock. And stay out from underfoot. Because we’ll step on you hard.”
“I’ve been stepped on by bigger men,” I told him, “and better.”
I thought that was a pretty good tag line and I left him on it.
At the Beverly Hills Ford Agency, I was told that they could get new seats and backs from Long Beach. They would order them.
At my office, I made out an insurance claim and then went to work on the reports of my calls for the day. Between Dave Trask’s insolence and the hot-rodders’ savagery, it hadn’t been a pleasant day, but I was learning this wasn’t a pleasant business.
Somewhere in the limbo between the law and the lawless I sat, respected by neither. My friends in the Department had been friends before I’d opened this office.
It was almost seven when the reports were finished. I phoned the Christopher residence and a maid answered and I asked to speak with Miss Christopher.
I told her what I’d learned and explained, “You must know some of his other friends. You could give me their names and I could talk to them. I’ve checked through the credit bureau and with his partner and his landlord. Without any other names to go on, I’ve done about as much as I can.”
“You haven’t learned who killed him.”
“No, I haven’t. And frankly, I have very little chance of learning it. I could take your money and pretend to spend my time on it. But that would be dishonest.”
Silence, for a moment, and then she said, “Are you busy now? Could you come to the house?”
“I haven’t eaten,” I told her. “Could you give me an hour for that first?”
“Eat here,” she suggested. “I haven’t eaten either. It’s cool out here on the patio.”
“I’m on the way,” I said.
She wasn’t wearing the suit this evening. She wore a white, bare-shouldered creation of some stiff, ribbed cotton, tight at the waist and with a flaring skirt.
There was a breeze from the west, but the night was warm. At a mammoth brick grill, a Negro was broiling steaks.
Glenys Christopher asked, “Martini?”
“Only to keep a wealthy client. I’d prefer beer.”
She smiled. “You can overwork this poor but honest motif, you know. Would you really prefer beer?”
“It’s all I drink, usually.”
From a refrigerated chest built into the planter that encircled the patio, she brought a bottle of Einlicher. It was a pilsener with a tang and no bars served it.
“The good life,” I said, and leaned back in the cushioned redwood chair.
She sat across from me in the chair’s twin. She said quietly, “I’ve been thinking of you all day.”
A remark like that can be misread. I waited without comment.
“We need a man,” she went on, “Bobby and I. We need a man I can trust and Bobby can admire. I’d like to put you on a retainer.”
“Your parents are both dead?”
She nodded. “And there are no uncles or aunts with sense.”
“You need an attorney,” I told her. “Not a cheap peeper.”
“We have an attorney, bright and completely ethical.
Unfortunately, he isn’t very muscular.”
“Oh?” I sipped the beer. “You want a muscular man you can trust and Bobby can admire. Why — ?”
“Because there are times when a displayed biceps is more effective than a letter from an attorney.”
“You’ve had need lately for a strong man, have you?”
She sighed. “Not this month. You certainly don’t encourage a customer who wants to buy, do you, Mr. Callahan?”
“I’m sorry,” I told her. “Let’s talk business after dinner. I’ll bet I’ll be more reasonable. It’s been a messy day.” I told her about the hot-rodders and my upholstery.
She was silent for seconds after I’d finished. Then she said, “And there, but for the grace of God, goes Bobby. He could be one of those. He’s big and strong and there are times when he’s arrogant. Don’t you see why I need a man like you on call?”
I asked quietly, “Was Roger Scott that kind of man?”
Her answer was equally soft. “I thought he was. If what you learned today is true, I must have been wrong about him.” She looked over at the grill. “I guess our steaks are ready.”
Einlicher and filet, hot rolls and an all-green salad with imported Roquefort dressing. A warm night and a beautiful girl and Callahan offered a retainer. Why should I be uneasy?
An old Beverly Hills family, the Christophers. They had friends with money and the friends would have troubles and my office was convenient for all the troubled friends. Do not be naive, Brock Callahan; this is the world. It’s a little more complicated than tackling a halfback or protecting a passer, but you’ve been offered a promising start in this new profession of yours.
The Negro asked, “Could I get you anything, Mr. Callahan?”
“You could bring me another bottle of that Einlicher,” I told him.
I thought of Juan Mira and the three hundred dollars. I heard him say, “You find my Rosa — ”
But I couldn’t make a living on the Filipino trade. There weren’t enough of them with money.
Glenys Christopher said, “You don’t smoke and you drink only beer. You’re a highly moral man, aren’t you, Mr. Callahan?”
“I don’t think so. I guess I just never got started on the pleasanter vices.”
She chuckled. “On any of them?”
I looked at her directly. “I’m not a virgin, if that’s what you mean, Miss Christopher.”
She colored. “I guess that’s what I meant, but your answer seemed unnecessarily vulgar.”
“Blunt,” I admitted, “but not vulgar. There seems to be a lack of frankness between us. Or am I only imagining things?”
No answer from her immediately. She ran a hand over the white dress, smoothing the wrinkles from her lap. She picked at an unseen bit of lint.
When she looked up again, she said, “Well, I guess it’s not only Bobby I’m worried about. I need protection, too.”
“From whom? From fortune hunters?”
“Mostly from myself, I guess. I thought that Roger was a talented writer and an ethical agent. He wasn’t either of those things, was he?”
“I don’t know. You could probably get informed opinions on both sides. Did he claim to be?”
She sighed. “Roger never directly claimed to be anything. He was a master at the modestly mentioned inference. He was far too intelligent to put himself out on any limbs.”
“You’ve fallen out of love very quickly, Miss Christopher.”
Her face stiffened. “With cause, I’m sure you’ll agree?” I didn’t answer. I didn’t think a real love would end this quickly for any cause. It seemed like no one was going to mourn Roger Scott, neither his partner nor his girl nor his landlord.
I asked her, “Did Scott have any relatives you knew of?”
She shook her head.
“I’ll have to see who’s in charge of the funeral,” I sai
d. “There might be a lead there. Do you still think his enemies could be yours?”
She nodded.
I stood up. “It’s been a tiring day, Miss Christopher. I see no reason for not accepting your retainer. And thank you for the wonderful dinner.”
She rose. “You’re welcome. And you could call me Glenys.”
“All right. Good night, Glenys.”
For a moment we stood there, immovable, and I had an urge to move closer, but she hadn’t given me any reason for that. It was an urge any red-blooded boy would have. There were no servants in the patio, now; there was no sound but the rustling of the eucalyptus trees in the breeze from the west.
“Good night, Brock,” she said finally. “Good luck.”
I smiled. “You sounded just like Edward R. Murrow, there. If anything happens that I should know about, let me know immediately, won’t you?”
“I certainly shall. Wait, I’ll walk with you to the door.”
A gesture which made me a guest instead of an employee. We went from the yellow-lighted patio through the darkened house to the lighted entry hall. A maid was there, and she opened the door.
“Good night, again,” Glenys said, and I said it again, and went along the asphalt of the parking area to my mutilated flivver.
The motor was still warm; her hundred and thirty horses came to life and we went humming down the driveway and onto Crescent Drive. West on Wilshire, west to Westwood, which is home.
The apartment house I lived in was old and Spanish, built around a court. It was still early; a few of the tenants sat in the court, enjoying that California rarity, a warm night.
The Kimballs, who lived in the apartment next to mine, were sitting near the iron stairway. Polly Kimball called out, “We’re looking for a fourth, Brock. It’s too early for bed.”
“Not for me,” I said. “I work for a living.”
Paul laughed. “I told you you should have stayed with the Rams. Now you’re learning what honest labor is.”
I waved at them and went up the steps to 220. A small bedroom, a small living room, a small kitchen and a breakfast nook. And a bathroom with stall shower. I was in the shower two minutes later.
Murder in the Raw Page 4
