by Henry, Kane,
chapter 1
The music was real cool at Mother’s. Edie was singing and Peter Gunn, alone at a corner table, was tapping his foot to the jazz. The combo was swinging this hot night in April and the boy on guitar fitted fine. Sam Lockwood was a substitute, but this was his last night. The regular guitar man had been out for ten days with a virus but the virus had finally responded to bed rest and penicillin and now he was up and around and anxious to make the scene.
The boy was good, as the musicians themselves attested. The boy was handsome, as anyone with eyes could attest. The boy had sex appeal, as the constant presence of the blonde attested. The blonde had come in the first night the boy had gone to work and she had come in every night since. She came late, to a reserved table, and the boy joined her for drinks during the breaks, and when his night’s stint was over, he joined her for more drinks and then they left together. Actually the boy was no boy. He was about thirty-five but he was tall and slender and he looked younger than thirty-five because there were no lines on his face and he had a clear, happy countenance and a quick, strong-toothed grin and smiling blue eyes and a shock of tousled, unruly red hair. The blonde was small and cute with a rippling pageboy bob, enormous dark-brown eyes, and a lithe figure with appropriate bulges at the appropriate sites where attractive blondes should appropriately bulge. Edie had become acquainted with the blonde, but not Gunn because, no matter the enticement, he did not approach strange ladies (at least not in Mother’s where Edie reigned); and Edie was not in the habit (in fact, avoided) introducing Peter Gunn to attractive blondes or brunettes or redheads or grayheads or greenheads or baldheads or whatever the stripe or character as long as the adjective was attractive and the gender female.
And now as the music muted and Edie went into her last chorus and Gunn tapped his foot to the time he became conscious of another foot beating time alongside his. The foot was expensively shod and as Gunn’s gaze traveled upward he noted that the suit was expensive, the shirt was expensive, the tie was expensive, and the florid face was expensively massaged and the iron-gray hair expensively trimmed. The man was broad-shouldered, massive-faced, dark-eyed, beetle-browed and expressionless.
“Peter Gunn,” said the man in a deep low voice.
“Go away,” said Gunn.
“I’m told you’re Peter Gunn,” said the man.
“I’m Peter Gunn,” said Gunn. “Please go away.”
“I want to talk to you.”
“Not now. The girl is singing.”
“It’s business, Mr. Gunn.”
“Not while my girl is singing.”
“Oh? Your girl? Very pretty.”
“Thanks. Now go away.”
The man sat down. “What’s her name?”
“Miss Edie Hart. Now you’ll either shut up or I’ll have to remove you.”
“I’ll shut up.”
Edie finished her song. There was applause and calls for more and Edie obliged with another. At Peter Gunn’s table there was respectful silence except for the beat of the feet, and when the song was over Edie moved through the smoke-filled room toward Gunn’s table, saw that he had company, veered and seated herself with the pageboy blonde.
“May I talk now?” said the man with the deep voice.
“I’m sorry I was rude,” said Gunn. “It doesn’t happen often. Mostly when my girl sings.”
“Love,” said the man with the deep voice. “It’s one of the few excuses for impertinence that I can accept.”
“Sir,” said Gunn, “just between you and me, I don’t like your tone. What you accept or do not accept is of no interest to me. Remember, if you please, I didn’t invite you to sit down here and I don’t owe you any courtesy whatever.”
“I like you,” said the man. “I like you very much.”
“Shall we dance?” said Gunn.
The man chuckled. “I’d been told that you’re quite a character but I’ve also been told that you’re the best private eye on the West Coast and that’s what I’m interested in.”
“For how much?” said Gunn.
“For so much,” said the man and laid an oblong of green paper on the table. The oblong of green paper was a check. The check was for five thousand dollars.
“Who do you want me to kill?” said Gunn.
“Sam Lockwood.”
“I’m not killing musicians this season.”
“Any objections to investigating them?”
“No objections whatever, except that five thousand bucks is a pretty large fee for checking into a substitute guitarist.”
“It’s important to me. Very important.”
“Why?”
The man looked toward where Edie was seated, “That’s why,” he said.
“That’s my girl, remember?” said Gunn.
“The other one,” said the man, “is my girl.”
“Your girl?” said Gunn. “Why you’re old enough to be her father.”
“I am her father.”
“Oh,” said Gunn.
The man pushed the check toward Gunn and clasped his hands on the table. They were thick, strong hands. “She’s no baby, she’s twenty-four, but she hasn’t been around too much, and this is the first time she’s been really running with a guy, and look what she picked—a half-assed musician.” His dark eyes were on Gunn, bold, arrogant, insolent eyes. “I could mash him up if I wanted to but I don’t want to because I don’t want to hurt her like that. So I’m doing it roundabout. I’m hiring you. For a report on him.”
“And you’d like it to be a bad report.”
“Very much.”
“No soap.” Gunn pushed the check back to the darkeyed man, and smiled. “This is like a new version of shuffle-board or table-tennis or something. Sorry. No soap, Mr. Bain.”
“How do you know my name?”
“I’m clairvoyant.”
“I can double that, Mr. Gunn, and give you free rein with expenses.”
“I’m sure you could, Mr. Bain. And for that you’d want me to plant a lot of stuff on this guy, stack up a lot of trouble for him, maybe even get him jailed, and then he’d have a nice bad report card.”
“It’s been done. A clever operator can do it. You’re in the business.”
“No, sir, I’m not in that business. There are private detectives and private detectives. I’m a private detective pure as the driven slush. Go spin your bottle somewhere else, Mr. Bain.”
Bain wiped a hand across his face, caught his chin and held it as he studied Gunn. Then he smiled, all except his eyes. Then his other hand pushed the check once more toward Gunn. “Okay. Let’s give it a whirl. Let’s play it by ear. Check the guy, and check him legit, and give me a legit report. It might come out bad at that. If it doesn’t, well, we’ll see. Okay, Mr. Gunn? Okay if we do it legit?”
“Legit, you’ve hired yourself a detective, Mr. Bain, except, I’m afraid, you’re overpaying for a simple investigation.”
“Let’s say well-paying rather than overpaying, which is all to the good. I believe people work better when they’re well paid.”
“You’re quite the psychologist, aren’t you, Mr. Bain?”
“I know people, Mr. Gunn. People are my business.”
“I know,” said Gunn.
“Just how clairvoyant are you, Mr. Gunn?”
“About like this. Your name is Bain, Steve Bain. You’re President of the Truckers Union, Local 809. There are people who say you’re a racket labor boss and there are people who say you’re not—mostly, people say you are. Me, I don’t care, either way. I don’t need character references from a client when the client accedes to my working legitimately, even if the client requires a bit of initial prodding in that direction.”
“And how does one get so clairvoyant, Mr. Gunn?”
“One reads the papers and one has a retentive memory. I read the papers and I have a retentive memory. You’re in the papers every now and then, Mr. Bain, especially when there are Congressional hearings on the subject of labor unions. But let’s return to the matter at hand, shall we?”
“Sure.”
“And can I have any help?”
“Like how?”
“Any lead on the substitute guitarist?”
“Nothing, except a guy tells me in New York his name was not Sam Lockwood, his name was Stan Lacey.”
“What guy?”
“One of my colleagues from New York. He seen Alice—that’s my daughter—he seen Alice with this guy right here in the club. He tells me in New York the guy played with a band in a joint called the Show Spot and there his name was Stan Lacey.”
“Well, that’s not necessarily nefarious,” Gunn said mildly. “Musicians take on stage names just like actors; do it all the time.”
“Who the hell said it was necessarily nefarious?”
“Just don’t want you to go flipping on one wing, Mr. Bain.”
“Don’t worry about me flipping, Mr. Gunn. You asked, so I told you. That’s all I know about the guy, except he’s a jazz musician, and I just don’t particular cotton to jazz musicians, not when they’re squiring around with my daughter. Get me?”
“Like mad, man,” said Gunn. “Now I’m going to tell them both you’ve hired me and what for. Any objection to that?”
“You do what you like, Mr. Gunn. Only why?”
“Why what?”
“Why tell them?”
“Psychology, Mr. Bain. Remember psychology?”
“Like how psychology, Mr. Gunn?”
“In a case like this, I like the subject stirred up. If he knows his gal’s father is checking on him, he gets stirred up. Stirred up, if he’s a deadbeat, he may start covering up tracks. Covering up tracks generally provides wide open channels for a smart investigator. I’m a smart investigator, else you wouldn’t be paying me five thousand dollars, would you?”
“Oh, you’re smart all right, damn smart. Yeah, I like this stirring up bit.” He squinted. “But why tell her?”
“Afraid of her, aren’t you?”
“No. But, you know, a daughter…”
“I wouldn’t tell her if I could avoid it, but I can’t avoid it, because if I tell him, he’ll tell her, won’t he?”
“Yeah, yeah…”
“So I’ll tell her directly, and that way I’ll be doing it right and proper, and everybody loves everybody who is right and proper, and I love being loved, as who doesn’t?”
“I like where my five thousand bananas are going.”
“Thank you. And one caution, Mr. Bain. Our friend Lockwood may come up with all A’s on his report card, and if so, I do wish you wouldn’t be too adamant in your attitude toward musicians. People are your business, you told me, and musicians are people, and there are good and bad in every profession.”
“Well…”
“Some of my best friends are musicians.”
“Well…”
“And now, if there’s nothing else, Mr. Bain…”
“You mean you would like me to blow?”
“I can’t say I particularly enjoy your company, to be absolutely candid, and you do want your expensive hireling to be candid, don’t you, Mr. Bain?”
“You’re a nervy little bastard, aren’t you?”
“Well, thank you again, Mr. Bain.”
Bain pushed up from the table, chair scraping. “You’ll deliver your report—”
“Truckers Union Building on Wilshire.”
“Brother, I get them clairvoyant, no?”
“Just about five thousand dollars’ worth, yes.”
“Good-by, Mr. Gunn. It was no pleasure at all.”
“Likewise, Mr. Bain. But at least for me it was lucrative.” The tall, thick-set man glared, sniffed, turned and departed.
Gunn sighed. He lifted his fee, regarded it ruminatively, sighed again, smiled, folded the fee and slipped it into his breastpocket where it sprouted like a crinkling green-hued nosegay.
chapter 2
He paid his check, tipped the waiter, drained his drink, rose and strode in time to the beat across the room and joined the ladies. He pulled up a chair, deposited coccyx, leaned forward, beamed at the brown-eyed blonde, leered at the blue-eyed Edie, offered, “May I buy you lovely chicks a drink?”
“Sir!” said the brown-eyed blonde, abashed.
“Mashers.” Edie was disconsolate. “They just happen everywhere, don’t they?”
“Two lovely blondes all alone, it hurts me, right here.” Gunn tapped at his left breast, discovered the nosegay-check sticking out, withdrew it, placed it into his wallet and put the wallet away. “Now then,” he said, smiling with all the teeth. “What is your pleasure, young ladies? Please order up.”
“I’ll call Mother,” said the brown-eyed blonde.
“Call Father,” said Gunn.
“What’s the matter with him?” said the brown-eyed blonde.
“Probably drunk,” said Edie sadly. “Certainly disorderly.”
The brown-eyed blonde half-rose. “I’ll call—”
“Sit down,” said Gunn. The brown-eyed blonde sank back. “Tell her,” said Gunn.
“Tell her what?” Edie batted innocent eyes.
“Cut the jazz,” said Gunn.
“Jazz?” said the brown-eyed blonde.
Edie sighed. “He’s Peter Gunn.”
“Who’s Peter Gunn?”
“He is.”
“I mean, am I supposed to know who—”
“Ah, fame,” said Gunn.
“Peter Gunn is to me,” said Edie, “what Sam Lockwood is to you. I sit with him.”
“Well, that’s putting it euphemistically,” said Gunn.
“Oh,” said the brown-eyed blonde, smiling, dimpling. “I’m sorry.”
“I’d be sitting with him right now,” said Edie, “except he was sitting with someone else.”
“A man,” said Gunn.
“Naturally,” said Edie. “Otherwise I’d have disturbed the peace.”
“Possessive,” said Gunn to the brown-eyed blonde. “Are you possessive too?”
“Depends,” said the brown-eyed blonde, “on the possession.”
“Meet Alice Bain,” said Edie.
“How do you do?” said Gunn. “I’m Gunn, Peter Gunn. Did you see me sitting with the man?”
“I’ve never seen you before, Mr. Gunn, sitting or otherwise.”
“She Only Has Eyes… for Sam…” sang Edie.
“Matter of fact,” said Gunn, “the man I was sitting with is a relative of yours.”
“Relative of mine?” said Alice Bain.
“Your father,” said Gunn.
“My father!” The girl’s eyes widened; her head twisted about, looking. “My father? Here? Where?”
“He’s gone,” said Gunn.
“My father? But why…?”
“Time for a drink,” said Gunn. He waved his fingers at a waiter and they ordered, Scotch for him, Scotch for Edie, bourbon for Alice, water for all.
Sam Lockwood, on the dais, stood up for a solo, and the trio at the table sat back and listened. Gunn studied the girl. She was pretty, very pretty, cute-pretty, but competent-pretty too. There was a strong set to her jaw, and her eyes, gazing appreciatively upon the slim figure of Sam Lockwood, were also gazing appraisingly. There was a good bit of her father in her, a coolness, a deliberateness, an assurance, quite a good deal of assurance, almost touching upon arrogance. But where arrogance in Steve Bain was offensive, the touch of arrogance in Alice Bain was cute. Of course Mr. Bain did not have the mitigating attributes of Miss Bain, such as a powder-blue cocktail gown cut deep in front, such as soft round arms and soft round breasts, such as glistening lips and square white teeth and luminous dark-brown eyes with shiny-dark hooded lids and long lashes that curled as though singed, such as ingenuous dimples�
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He was suddenly conscious of Edie’s accusatory glare. His eyes fell like dropped stones, his mouth pursed as though to kiss a baby, and his chin wagged to the beat like a metronome.
Lockwood sat down and guitar tone folded into the blend of the jump. There was a faint clatter of applause and the waiter came with the drinks. Each drank differently: Gunn combined Scotch, cubes and water to a tall highball, Edie poured Scotch on the rocks and added a trickle of water for a semblance of dilution, Alice sipped bourbon straight and disregarded the water but utterly.
“Why didn’t you order soda?” said Gunn.
“Water sounds more patrician,” said Alice.
“You like to sound patrician?”
“Don’t we all?”
“I suppose we do.”
“Just between us, I should say bourbon straight, perhaps a double bourbon, but like that I’d sound like a boilermaker, and I don’t look like a boilermaker, do I?”
“You certainly don’t, my dear. You look like—”
“Let’s just not lose our heads, kiddies,” said Edie.
“I love a jealous woman,” said Gunn.
“You had better,” said Edie.
“What about my father?” said Alice.
“Your father is my client.” Gunn sipped highball, set it away. “Very confidential. So I’d like to tell you about it.”
“Look out for him,” said Edie. “He’s devious.”
“He was here,” said Alice.
“Oh, yes, he was,” said Gunn. “I have a large check to prove it.”
“But why?”
“The check?”
“Why did he come here?”
“To retain me.”
“Retain you?”
“Mr. Gunn is an orb,” said Edie.
“Orb?” said Alice.
“Orb, eye, optic, iris, cornea, but private,” said Edie. “Very private. Meet Peter Gunn, a very private, always charming, never corny cornea.”
“Oh, yes, of course, Peter Gunn,” said Alice. “Of course. I have heard of you. Who hasn’t? Of course. I’m just not myself tonight.”
“Too much bourbon?” said Edie sweetly.
“Perhaps too little,” said Alice just as sweetly.
“Now, now, girls,” said Peter Gunn.
“You said confidential, Mr. Gunn.”
