The naked girl, who looked to be around nineteen or twenty, spotted me first. She sat up, crossed her legs Indian-style, and flashed a genuine smile. The other one’s grin seemed more mechanical. Neither of them bothered to cover up.
“Aren’t you cute,” Naked One said without losing the smile. “Are you my five o’clock? If you are, you’re extremely early.”
“Now, do I look like your five o’clock?” I said, grinning back.
“I don’t know,” she said coquettishly, working her eyes overtime. “He’s new. I never know; maybe you’re a movie actor in disguise.” The whole time she was showing me all of her assets.
“Do the seagulls ever bother you?” I asked.
Naked One giggled.
“My name’s Zeke Bannon,” I said, offering her my hand.
“Zeke?” the other one said. “What kinda name is Zeke?”
“Where are your manners, Emerald?” Naked One said. Then added, “Emerald’s new. She hasn’t finished the course yet.”
“Is this a school?”
Naked One lowered her chin a notch and looked up at me.
“Miss Delilah’s finishing school,” she said. She leaned back on her elbows and said, “If you’re not my five o’clock, I’ve got at least two hours free. Maybe I could give you a lesson or two.”
“I’ll just bet you could.”
A voice from high over my shoulder said sternly, “Jade, you two put something on. This isn’t a cattle show.”
Both girls scrambled for cover. I turned around and looked up. The woman on the second-floor balcony had to be Delilah O’Dell. She was dressed in a long yellow silk robe with a pale pink striped sash, and yellow slippers with large fluffy balls on the top. And a hat. A pink feathery thing, with one feather arching down behind her ear and over her shoulder. She had flaming red hair and a rather full face with suspicious eyes. She could have been anything from thirty-five to fifty. She had a monumental figure, not voluptuous, just right, with a waist a wasp would weep for. Not beautiful, she didn’t need to be; she was a package and knew it.
“Just make yourself at home, why don’t you,” she snapped.
“I rang the bell several times.”
“Maybe I was out.”
“You weren’t.”
“Maybe I wanted you to think I was. Most people would have come back later.”
“You’re Delilah O’Dell,” I said.
“Really? Do I owe you anything for that information?”
I took out my badge and held it up so it winked in the sunlight.
“I’m a cop.”
It neither surprised nor flustered her; nothing short of an earthquake would.
“I don’t give a damn if you’re King George,” she said. “This is a private club and I don’t remember inviting you in.”
“I took a chance I’d catch you home.”
“Did you now? Let me try and guess. You’re Bannon.”
“Word travels fast in San Pietro.”
“Out of all mouths and into my ears. What are you doing up here?”
“I made a wrong turn.”
“You sure did. Come around to the door.” She vanished into the house.
I walked back to the front door, and a middle-aged colored man with graying hair and a build like King Kong opened it. He took my hat and nodded toward the stairs. I followed his instructions. I don’t know what he did with my hat.
There was a living room to the right of the door as I entered, a large sitting room to the left, a door at the far end of the sitting room, and another door under the stairs, which circled up to a small mezzanine. It was fashionably furnished and in good taste. I went up to the top of the stairs. A hallway led off to my left and a door was to the right. I turned around and surveyed the downstairs sitting room. A moment later Delilah O’Dell came out of the door.
“Enjoying more of the view?” she asked.
“So that’s where the Grand View shoot-out occurred,” I said, nodding to the large room. “And you and Culhane were the only two who walked away from it.”
“It wasn’t the Battle of Gettysburg,” she answered tartly. “Keep it in perspective. Come in here.”
“Your man took my hat,” I said.
“You’ll get your damn hat back. Occasionally we have a guest who forgets his manners and wears his hat inside. This way we don’t embarrass anyone.”
“I should think at five hundred smackers a pop you wouldn’t care.”
“This is a classy place, Bannon, it isn’t Steubenville, Ohio,” she said, assuming I knew that Steubenville was reputed to be the whorehouse capital of the world.
Her living room was done in yellow and pale green. Chaise, sofa, three chairs you could sink in and disappear, white coffee tables. The lamps were Tiffany and overhead was a magnificent crystal chandelier that filled in the shadows in the room. A well-stocked wet bar in one corner. Billie Holiday was singing “I Get Along Without You Very Well” on the console.
I looked at the feather draped across her shoulder.
“Do you wear that hat to bed?” I asked.
“I don’t wear anything to bed,” she said. “How about you?”
“Silk pajama bottoms.”
“You aren’t the type.”
“I live alone. I don’t have company that often so I dress for comfort.”
“You must not be trying very hard,” she said, walking to the bar.
“To do what?”
“Have company. John Jameson alright?”
“Beautiful. One cube of ice, please.”
She chuckled as she fixed the drinks.
“What’s funny?” I asked.
“Two of a kind,” she said half-aloud, shaking her head. She opened an ebony humidor, took out two thin cigars, and squeezed them between thumb and forefinger. Satisfied they were fresh, she snipped the ends off with a small scissor. She lit one, twirling it in the flame like an expert, and brought the drink and cigar over to me.
“Cuban,” she said, nodding to the cigar. “I have a friend that brings them to me once a month. Why don’t you give your legs a rest.”
I sank into one of the big chairs. It was like sitting on a cloud.
“This is a great cigar,” I said. “Of course, most of the cigars I’ve smoked cost a nickel and had ‘It’s a boy’ printed on the wrapper.”
She lit her own cigar.
“You do that with real finesse,” I said. “Did your tricks come with the house?”
“I learned my tricks—as you call them—from a very experienced lady in Paris. I was her apt pupil for three years, starting when I was eighteen.”
She looked me over with an experienced eye. “You shouldn’t have any trouble finding company. Great eyes, nice nose, good strong jawline. Nice straight teeth. Trim. You could use a few hours in the sun. And not too tall. That’s good. Anything over six feet I find intimidating.”
“Who’re you kidding? Nothing intimidates you.”
“How would you know?”
“It’s a measured guess. Is this how you size up your young ladies?”
“I’m not too concerned about height where the ladies are concerned,” she said, sitting down on the chaise. “Some men like amazons, some like midgets.”
“No kidding. I’ve never met a lady midget.”
“Would you like to?”
“I can’t afford it. A drink in this place would bankrupt me.”
“Maybe a free sample, then. But I get to watch.”
“Is that your monkey? Watching?”
“More like an audition.”
“I already have a job,” I said with a laugh.
“Not like the job I have in mind.”
“I’m sure.”
“Are you any good at it?”
“My job?”
“Yes, your job.”
“Not bad.”
“Brodie says you’re a pit bull. Are you a pit bull . . . What’s your first name?”
“Sergeant.”
“Cute,” she said sarcastically. “Is this where you go into your official act? Where’s the blackjack?”
“We stopped using them, they leave bruises,” I laughed. “My name’s Zeke. And I assume Brodie told you to go mum on me.”
“Brodie doesn’t tell me what to do; I figure things out for myself. I think you’re chasing some half-baked idea and you think if you talk to enough people, somebody’s bound to tell you a lie you can hang your hat on.”
“I suppose you could look at it that way.”
She shook her head slowly. “Well, at least you’re honest about it, Sergeant,” she said with a little spit in her tone.
“Why don’t you call me Zeke.”
“I don’t think we’re going to get that chummy.”
“Really? I heard you have a thing for cops.”
“I have a thing for men.”
“Ow . . . got a thing for acid, too.”
“You don’t chip easily, do you?”
“You’re pretty good, but not that good.”
“I’m just warming up.”
“I won’t be around for the finale.”
“Really?”
“This won’t take that long. What do your young ladies do for kicks?” I asked, making it sound as casual as possible. “San Pietro isn’t exactly the Lido.”
“They’re driven into Santa Barbara or Los Angeles when they want to have fun. Sometimes they sneak into town for a movie.”
“Do they do well? I mean, do they make a nice living?”
“Is this going to be twenty questions?”
“Curiosity.”
“Jade, the naked sun goddess, is studying biology at U.C.L.A. She only works summers and holidays. So far, she’s put herself through three years of college, makes straight A’s, and will have a nice little nest egg when she graduates. That answer your question?”
“I was wondering where they bank,” I said, and tried to blow a smoke ring, which fell apart as it left my lips. She blew three perfect ones and stared hard at me as they rose toward the chandelier.
“Do you shill for a bank on the side?” she asked after a minute crept by.
“I’m sure you know about the five hundred a month the woman Verna Hicks Wilensky was getting. I just talked to the notary at one of the banks. She described two of the buyers as five-three or five-four, a hundred and ten pounds, sexy, very fancily dressed for San Pietro. Pleasant, friendly, self-assured. The description could fit either of the naked goddesses down by the pool. And probably all the rest of the gals in your sorority.”
“Or any other good-looking girl five-three or five-four.”
“The descriptions of the buyers all follow the same line. Pretty, far too well dressed for your average San Pietro girl, in their early twenties. Well spoken, good manners, friendly but not overly so . . .”
“What are you building?”
“As you told me, your girls sneak off to Eureka for an occasional movie but don’t spend time down there.”
“It’s called San Pietro. Eureka is history.”
“Not from where I’m standing. Some things don’t wash off.”
“And you’re different? Your badge makes you any better?”
I thought about that for a moment or two.
“Maybe you’re right, Delilah. Maybe it’s the same gutter no matter how you dress it up.”
“Maybe you better sashay out of here.”
“I’m not through yet. We were talking about your dollhouse. The girls wouldn’t be recognized down in the village. They don’t give their names, they hand the notary an envelope with five Ben Franklins in it and the name of the payee, get the check, put it in an addressed, stamped envelope, and get lost. I’d like to talk to some of the girls.”
“Sure. Just as soon as I fall over dead on the floor.”
“I could get pushy.”
“You could lose that pretty smile of yours.”
“We could do this the hard way, Delilah.”
“My first name is Miss,” she said harshly. “And you’re up here chasing your own tail. Trying to pin something on me or Culhane or somebody else up here. Let me show you something.”
She led me across the room and pointed to a small photograph mounted on the wall. It was a shot of Brodie and his crew, somewhere in France. The remnants of a town formed the background and they were up to their ankles in mud. Below the photograph, mounted on black velvet, were a Purple Heart and a Silver Star. She stared at Culhane’s figure as though transfixed.
“Why did you leave, Brodie?”
He shrugged. “To see the world.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You want to know the truth? I was running away from what I just came back to.”
She smiled ruefully. “You were sweet on Isabel, Ben was sweet on Isabel, and Isabel was sweet on both of you. Me? I was sweet on you and I couldn’t make it to first base.”
“Hell, we were just kids, Del.”
“Doesn’t make it hurt any the less.”
“We were all good friends. Still are, I should hope.”
“Nothing could ever change that, Brodie.”
She went to the record changer and put on an up-tempo jazz record, “Aunt Hagar’s Children Blues,” and started to dance. Brodie had seen girls in Paris dancing like that, loose, legs flying, swinging to the rhythm of the music.
“C’mon, I’ll teach you to do the Charleston.”
“Can I do it on one leg?” he asked with a smile.
She stopped and lifted the needle off the turntable.
“I’m sorry . . .”
“Hey, it’s nothing. In another month I’ll be good as new. Still a little gimpy, that’s all.”
She sat down near him.
“Here’s to us,” she said, holding up her glass. When they tapped them, the fine glassware pinged like tiny bells.
“To us,” he echoed. “A month from now you can teach me to dance. Give me an excuse to come by.”
“You’ll never need an excuse, Brodie. Just show up. I’ll give you the key.”
Without looking at me, she said, “Do you know about these men?”
“I’ve met most of them,” I said. “Look, I’m not up here to give anybody grief, particularly a bunch of war heroes. I’m here because I’ve got a job to do and it involves murder and . . .”
“Go back to L.A. You think anybody up here will give you a nickel’s worth of news? There’s not a man in that picture wouldn’t lie, kill, or die for Culhane. And you can include me in the club.”
“I didn’t say anything specific about Culhane.”
“I think you’re dancing with the idea.”
“I think some of your girls have information that can help me. You want to do it the hard way?”
“Oh? And how would that work?”
“The scenario would go something like this: I send the black wagon up here from L.A. I come in with a fistful of warrants, and we haul a dozen of your ladies down to the city and go in the little room with the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling and get real serious. All we want to know is where they got the bucks to buy some cashier’s checks.”
“You’d have to wade through a couple of lawyers who make more money while they’re taking a leak than you do in a year.”
“I’ve done rounds with the best. Lawyers don’t rattle me, although being in the same room with them usually gives me a rash.”
“You’re an arrogant son of a bitch.”
“I’ve been called a lot worse.”
“I’m sure you have,” she said, standing up. “Well, that’s what you’re going to have to do, so you may as well trot on home and get your warrants.”
“I think you’ve told me enough already.”
“Don’t bang your head on the wall, Sergeant. A couple of dozen very well heeled, very well connected gentlemen come through here every week. Any one of them could have slipped one of the girls some Ben Franklins and asked her to do that little chore. The girls don’t know any of the
m by name.”
“Then why are you getting wrinkles in your corset?”
“It’s bad for business.”
“So’s murder.”
“I think you should finish your drink and toddle along. You can take the cigar with you.”
She walked across the room and opened the door.
“Swell,” I said. “And I was hoping we’d get along.”
“Save up your money for about ten years and come back; you’ll find out how pleasant I can be,” she answered.
“So long, Delilah,” I said. “Thanks for the drink and the cigar.”
The big colored guy was waiting for me at the front door with my hat.
“Good day, sir,” he said.
“It could have been better,” I told him.
I walked back toward the parking lot. I was guessing that the discreet side door hidden behind the hedgerow probably led to a private room for the locals.
Or maybe it was where the milkman made his morning delivery.
CHAPTER 26
Ski was in the diner when I got back there a little after three. He had commandeered a large booth in one corner and was leafing through his little black notebook.
Brett Merrill was sitting across the room in seersucker, a white shirt, and a blue tie, talking to a well-dressed gentleman who didn’t look like he belonged in a diner. Neither of them did.
“The big guy in seersucker talking to the older fellow is the D.A., Brett Merrill,” I told Ski.
“Ex-D.A.,” Ski corrected. “He retired. He’s Culhane’s campaign manager now.”
“So, how’d you do?” I asked.
“Not bad.”
That was encouraging. Ski, who had been in the bureaucracy six years longer than I had, was a master of the noncommittal, having learned the trick from Moriarity. His responses ranged from “not much” to “not bad.” Nothing less, nothing more. “Not bad” held promise.
“How’d you do?” he asked.
“Well, I had a steak sandwich and traded pedigrees with Culhane, met the Gormans, scored some points at a couple of banks, and then went to a whorehouse.”
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