The Case of the Vanishing Beauty

by Richard S. Prather

  I took three long steps into the room, past Mrs. Remorse, and knelt down at the side of the couch.

  Lina's face was pale, but she looked at me out of wide black eyes, smiled, and said, "Querido. I am glad you are here."

  "What happened? How bad is it?"

  She shook her head. "Poof! It is nothing. I was scared to death mostly. That Miguel! I will kill the pig and scratch out his eyes."

  I felt a sudden flood of relief and the kicking in my throat slowed down a little. I noticed Lina had been holding a folded towel against her left side. I bent down, lifted the towel free of her skin, and took a look. Just under the bottom edge of the short bolero, slanting slightly downward from its edge for about three inches along her side, was a bleeding gash. It didn't look deep; but it could have been as deep as her heart.

  I said to Lina, "Anything funny about this? About how it happened?"

  Her eyes narrowed and she curled her red lips. "Funny, yes. Very funny."

  That was enough for me. I got up and turned around to face Mrs. Remorse. She was still standing in the same place like a flesh mountain, hands on her hips and a frown furrowed deep into the fat of her face.

  "O.K., sweetheart," I growled through my teeth. "Where is he?"

  She shrugged her wrestler's shoulders. "How the hell would I know? He beat it. Now why don'tcha beat it yourself, smart-pants? Accidents'll happen."

  I glared at her. "Sure. Accidents will happen. I got a funny idea an accident's going to happen to Miguel. Tell me where he is, or so help me, I'll rip this joint apart."

  She cleared her throat and spat noisily on the floor, then turned around and waddled out the door.

  I turned around to Lina. "Miguel can wait," I said. "Come on, honey. You're getting out of here before anything else happens. You all right?"

  She nodded her head and swung her feet to the floor. She winced, then got to her feet. She smiled at me. "You were worried about me, no?"

  "Yeah. Now let's get out of this trap. I don't think your health's likely to improve around here."

  I grabbed her hand and hustled her out through the crowd. Guys said things to us and yelled at Lina, but I didn't hear what they were saying. I was busy looking for a pair of hard-faced twins or the spindly Miguel. Or anybody else that looked fishy. I was still burning, and I think if anybody'd laid a hand on me I'd have tried smashing his teeth out before I took a good look.

  The street outside was empty, but I kept my eyes moving around anyway. I felt better when we got in the car and I had it rolling. I made sure nobody was following us before I relaxed and looked over at Lina.

  Her fight hand was across her body, holding the towel on the cut, and her left arm was across her breasts, the hand hugging her shoulder. She shivered. "Roll up the window, it is cold."

  I'd been so mad I'd forgotten she didn't have much on. Just her shoes and stockings, the black tights, and the skimpy red bolero. Nothing else. That's right, nothing. I rolled up the window. "How do you feel? You O.K.?"

  "I am all right, Shell. I do not live this way."

  "I know it. I'm not taking you home."

  I drove the rest of the way into Hollywood without saying anything. I was thinking. Somebody had plenty to pay for, but I had a lot more to learn before I could start making them pay. And this thing looked as if it was a hell of a lot bigger than it had started out to be. I wished I knew what had made Georgia important enough to kill. And damn near get me killed. Christ, that wasn't all. Where did Tracy Martin fit in? And where the devil was she?

  There was little traffic on Sunset Boulevard at this hour, so I made good time. It was a few minutes after two A.M. when I turned left from Sunset onto Vine and drove down past Melrose to the Spartan Apartment Hotel on North Rossmore. I parked across the street.

  Lina asked, "What is here? Where are we now?"

  "My place. I live here."

  I saw her teeth shining in the near darkness. "So," She whispered, "you are not scared of me anymore?"

  "Look, Lina. You had a close squeak tonight. If it wasn't an accident—and I don't think it was—there might be more accidents all ready to happen. There's a pretty good chance somebody's at your place right now. You'll be safer here."

  She laughed softly, that gurgling laughter deep in her throat. I cleared my own throat and added, "Besides, I've got some questions to ask you."

  She gurgled some more. I went around and helped her out of the car. She didn't really need any help, but what the hell.

  Jimmy, the twenty-year-old clerk substituting temporarily at the desk, said, "Hello, Mr.—" Then his eyes lit on Lina, looking like a million dollars in her shorts and bolero, even with a bloodstained towel wadded under her left arm. His voice trailed off into a long "Ssss," and he got a queer it-can't-be-true look on his face. He blinked at her and his jaw sagged gently like a gasp in slow motion. He'd forgotten I was there.

  "Key, Jimmy," I said.

  He blinked some more at Lina and said, "Huh?"

  "Key. My key. To my apartment, Jimmy. So I can open the door."

  He snapped out of it. "Oh. Sure, Mr. Scott. Sure."

  He gave me the key. As Lina and I went by she murmured loud enough for him to hear, "Oh, he is so cute."

  I made a face at her and poked the button for the self-service elevator. As we got in I glanced back at Jimmy. He was staring across the room at nothing, a big smile spread across his face.

  I grinned at Lina. "Lay off Jimmy," I said. "He's just a kid. You've probably ruined him for days."

  "Maybe I like kids."

  "Stop kidding."

  "Yes, I am kidding."

  My apartment is on the second floor, and two doors from mine is Dr. Paul Anson's. I banged on his door and got him out of bed. He peeked out and went through some of the routine Jimmy had, only more dignified.

  "Paul, sorry to get you up, but the lady has a cut in her side. Mind coming down and fixing it up?"

  "No trouble, Shell. Ah, no trouble at all. Be right down." He leered at Lina, then shut the door.

  I led Lina down to my door and said, "Yeah, I know. He is so cute."

  "Even cuter than Jimmy, he is. But not so cute as you are."

  I leered at her, too.

  I told her to wait outside, unlocked the door, and flicked on the light. I looked around inside, then brought her in. I was sure nobody could have got out here before us, even if he'd wanted to, but so many cockeyed things had happened I was ready to start looking under beds.

  Lina walked in and looked over the living room.

  The living room I like. The whole place, for that matter, but especially the living room. Straight in from the door, slanting diagonally in front of a fake fireplace, is a chocolate-brown divan big enough for six people to play games on, and right in front of it I've got one of those big, gleaming black-lacquered coffee tables that look as if they've got their legs chopped off. The top of the coffee table has a few water rings on top from forgotten highball glasses, but the rings are covered up by current magazines. If you don't read, you'll never notice. And don't ask me who forgot the highball glasses, or why.

  Besides the squat leather chair that is my own personal spot, there are a couple of chocolate-brown overstuffed jobs and three big hassocks that get kicked all over the place. On the floor, wall to wall, there's a soft, deep carpet in yellow gold, with a thick shag nap that's kind to tired feet. Come on up sometime when your feet hurt, honey. Take off your shoes. I'll let you walk barefoot on my carpet. The hell you say. You ache all over?

  Lina stopped just inside the door, on the left where I've got the two aquariums—one big one for the various tropical fish, and a smaller one for more guppies.

  She clapped her hands together like a kid in a candy store. "Oooh. What are these, the little fishes?"

  "Yeah. The little fishes. Like 'em?"

  "They are so pretty. What is she?" She pointed to the big tank and at a dark-red guy about two inches long, with blood-red fins twice as long as his body.
/>   She's a he," I said. "That's a Betta splendens. Siamese fighting fish. They used to breed them in Siam so they'd so they'd fight and kill each other. That is why I've only got one in the tank. They're murderous among their own kind, but you'd never know it to look at him."

  "Caramba! No. So beautiful he is."

  "Yeah. And they're never more beautiful than when they're getting ready to fight and maybe kill one of their kind. Watch this, Lina." I picked up the little hand mirror at the side of the aquarium and held it where the betta could see himself reflected in it. Immediately he tensed, the fins spread wide in a flashing ripple of colors, stretched to their limit. The gill covers distended, stretching, and the drooping, fiery-red pectoral fins moved slowly. He seemed to vibrate angrily for a moment before I lowered the mirror and put it back beside the tank. The fins relaxed and the betta moved lazily as before.

  Lina had been watching the show, fascinated. "How strange," she murmured.

  "Uh-huh. And if that had been another betta in with him instead of just his reflection in a mirror, they'd have been tearing away at each other, ripping those beautiful fins and trying to kill, or killing. Seems too bad, doesn't it? Even among fishes." I grinned at her. "Moral there somewhere."

  She shook her head and turned back toward the middle of the room. Her eye caught the garish, yard-square nude I've got hung over the fake fireplace. She marched straight across the room to stand looking up at it. She examined it intently, then turned around to face me. "Who is it? This fat pig."

  "Second wife. Amelia."

  She laughed. "No, really. Who is it?"

  "I told you. Amelia."

  She frowned. Her lips pushed out in a little-girl pout. "You fool with me. Tell me, querido. I did not think…You are not married!" She stamped her foot. "Marrano cochino! Do you fool with me? I kill her. I will kill you!"

  I laughed. "Simmer down, pepper pot. I don't know who she is. I found her in a hock shop on Main Street. Cute, huh?"

  "No. Is disgusting." She smiled and tilted her head. "I am much better. My body, it is much prettier to look at. Much." Then she got serious and frowned again. "You are married. You are married to some pig."

  "Nope. Not to a pig. Not to anybody. Still in the open market."

  "I close the market. Finished." She laughed and walked across the room toward me, hips swinging. Came a damn knock on the damn door.

  It was the doc. I let him in, the crumb. He was decked out in a hundred-dollar maroon robe, a white silk muffler around his neck, and he smelled pretty. His hair was all in place like a toupee. If he'd had time, he'd probably have shaved. I found myself wishing he'd taken the time.

  "Well, well," he burbled heartily. Too heartily, if you ask me. "Well, well. What seems to be the trouble. Hmm?"

  I neglected to mention that Dr. Paul Anson was a movie-colony doctor. His prices were steep, his diagnosis was almost invariably correct, and his manner was straight out of a B movie. He made plenty of money, a lot of it from prescribing placebos for Hollywood hypochondriacs, and occasionally went on a bat in San Francisco. He was tall, and looked a little like John Wayne. Just a little.

  He stretched Lina out on the couch and examined the gash on her side. He kept up a running commentary of small talk while he cleaned and dressed the wound. When he was finished Lina smiled and said, "Thank you so very much, Doctor," and he probably felt as if he'd been paid. I told him to send the bill to me.

  He acted as if he felt it would be wise to give Lina a thorough physical examination, but I got him to the door and outside.

  "Better?" I asked Lina.

  "Better. His hands were very soft."

  "Yeah. Nice soft clutching hands."

  "But he did not clutch. He was most gentle."

  She got up and said, "I wish to look around, here where you live, Shell."

  I took her on a short conducted tour. Besides the living room, there's' a kitchenette, bedroom, and bath. The bath is clean white tile trimmed with green, and has a tub for relaxing and a shower for showering. Also the other incidentals. The bedroom boasts an oversize double Hollywood bed, draperies, and a black carpet on the floor, wall to wall, a couple of chairs, a dresser, and another hassock. Lina stopped in the bedroom and investigated the closet where I hang the clothes Connie Benstein tailors for me down on the Strip.

  "They are pretty clothes you have, Shell," she said. "But such amazing ties! So bright they are!" She shook her head.

  I was having a hell of a good time just following her around. It was like waiting for something to happen. Besides, she was luscious just to look at.

  She took a peek into the kitchenette and came up with a bottle of bonded bourbon. "Aahh," she squealed, "for a party. We will have the party." She proceeded to open the bottle.

  I took over and mixed us a couple of drinks, then led her back to the living room. She sat at one end of the divan; I sat at the other.

  "Now," I told her, "we talk."

  "Poof! I do not wish to talk."

  "Baby, start talking before I start beating you. Now, tell me about what happened after I left earlier. And how about that cut?"

  She sighed. "All right. But you are foolish. What shall I start with?"

  "When I left you at El Cuchillo. Did Maggie try to make a phone call?"

  "Dios mío!" she said, and her eyes got wide. "What a time it was. You left and I hurried to her office. She has the phone in her hand and she pushes it back down on the thing and looks at me. 'Whatta hell!' she yells. You know how she is, that woman."

  "I know. Go on."

  "Well, I tell her that I wish more money. That to have knives thrown at me all the time, I should have more money. She says all right, all right, and for me to scram. But I do not scram. I stay and ask her when, how much money, and so on, till she is mad. Oh, very mad. She chases me out and I run to the phone booth in the club. I say out loud that I wish a nickel and so many men hold out money for me. How many do you think, Shell?"

  "Hundreds, anyway. What then?"

  "Very fast I dial the number of Maggie—it is a different one from the booth. And her phone rings and she answers. I do very good, no?"

  I nodded. "Very damn good."

  "Well, I disguise my voice and talk, but she says she is busy. I should call back. I tell her I am looking for a job. I am a Mexican dancer. She gets mad some more. Finally she is not there, at the other end. I wait a while, then I look around. Madre de Dios! There she is. Looking in at me. She is like a fat volcano. She opens the door and says what am I doing. I start to hang up, but she grabs it out of my hand and pulls me outside. Then she yells, 'Pedro!' he is a waiter—and he runs over. She is frowning very much and she says, 'Pedro, go to the office and talk on my phone.' He goes off and she listens a while, then hangs up the phone and looks at me very fiercely and goes away. That is all."

  I swallowed. "That's all, huh? Honey, I'm afraid I made you stick your pretty little neck right in it. I'm sorry as hell."

  "But I was glad to help you?'

  "Yeah. And the next thing, Miguel tries to stick a knife in you. How'd it happen?"

  She pulled her lips back from flashing white teeth. "That Miguel!" she hissed. "I will fix him, myself, for what he has done. Ay! Es un perro y va a morir! Le sacaré los ojos con las uñas! Lo mataré! Voy a—"

  "Whoa! Slow down. How'd it happen?"

  "Caramba! Well, you have seen the act." She grinned. "You were part of it, remember? You know how it is. The act is over, then there, is one more knife to be thrown. Always that gusano, he waves his arms and bows, and then he throws the knife. It is all planned. But this time, he does not bow. He turns fast and throws the knife. I see him turn. He has seemed to be strange, and I have been watching him. I jump fast and I hit the knife handles that are stuck, but his knife, it cuts me here." She touched the bandage on her side. "I was so scared. To death I was scared."

  I looked at her. "You poor kid. And I was the damn fool that almost got you killed. I'll take care of Miguel for you, honey."r />
  "You ponch him for me."

  "Yeah. I'll ponch him for both of us." I thought about it for a minute. "Lina, if that knife had been a little farther over, or if you hadn't jumped fast enough, it would've looked like an accident. Just a slip, a mistake."

  "But it was luck," she said. "It was not serious."

  I didn't say so, but I thought it was serious. Serious for Miguel."

  "Enough,' she said suddenly. "It is enough talk. Come." She patted the cushions beside her. "Come sit by me."

  I slid over beside her. She said, "Put your arm over my shoulders. I wish to say something to you."

  I put my arm around her. She didn't have to ask me twice. She probably wouldn't have to ask me anything twice.

  She said, "For you only did I fool with the fat one. And for you was the knife thrown at me. I think you should kiss me."

  As I said, she wouldn't have to ask me anything twice. I set my drink on the coffee table in front of the divan, put my other arm around her, and pulled her close. She kissed me as if she was dying and it was the last kiss she'd ever get.

  Me? I was living.

  She leaned her head back on my arm and sighed. "Ah, querido. I like you. I like you Very much. You like me, no?"

  "I like you, yes."

  "That is better. I like you better this way, querido."

  I kissed her again. She died again. This could lead to a deathbed scene. I said, "Lina, this querido. What it is?"

  "It means 'darling,' or 'my dearest.'"

  "Oh? I'm your dearest now."

  Softly, very softly, she said, "Yes. You are my dearest."

  Minutes later I said, "Honey, I can't stick around. I've still got things to do. Things that have to be done."

  "You can do nothing now." She grabbed my arm and looked at my watch. "It is two o'clock and half an hour. In the morning. Do it," she smiled slowly, "mañana."

  I shook my head. "Look. When I leave I'll tell the clerk no one comes up here. The place is empty. Nobody comes up but me. I'll take the key and keep it with me. Don't say anything if there's a knock at the door unless you're positive it's me. Answer the phone if it rings, but don't say anything unless you get proof it's me on the other end. There's food in the kitchen, so you stay put. Right here. In other words, talk to nobody but me. Got it?"