Not I, Said the Vixen

by Bill S. Ballinger

  Pauline arched her back, and stared coquettishly at the camera. “My chin’s getting tired,” she told Barker. “Hurry up.”

  Barker snapped the shutter. “Got it.” The infrared bulb flashed invisibly.

  With a sigh, Pauline relaxed her exaggerated position. Her large breasts, without a brassiere, joggled heavily beneath the silk of her pajamas. Pauline’s mind, however, was still on the events of the trial. “It’s funny… sort of…” she mused. “All that talk about it being so dark… and lines going and coming from where the revolver went off… and stuff like that. And nobody said anything at all about her wearing glasses…” Barker pulled out the print from the back of the camera. It was a stark, unattractive picture of Pauline, posed on the couch. “It would seem to me that it might be important.…” Pauline continued her observations.

  “What’s important?” Barker asked, paying only slight attention to the woman’s comments.

  “About Ivy Lorents’ glasses. Aren’t you listening?”

  Slowly Barker put down the camera. He stared at Pauline. “You mean she wears glasses?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve seen her wear them?”

  “A couple of times,” Pauline replied with emphasis.

  “Do you mean sunglasses?”

  “Well, she wears sunglasses, but she also wears the other kind, too. Regular ones. I’ve seen her put ’em on and take ’em off when she was driving her car.”

  “You didn’t tell Willard?”

  “No. It didn’t occur to me. It wasn’t until I started to think about that Dr. Edwards, just now, that…”

  Barker interrupted her impatiently. “It’s goddamned important. I wonder where she got them? There’re only about eight thousand optometrists in this town.”

  “Perhaps she has the name of the one she goes to in a memo book,” Pauline suggested.

  Her suggestion was waved away. “The cops aren’t complete dopes,” Barker assured her. “When they went through her apartment they’d have found his name, if she’d written it down.”

  “Or maybe there’s an old glass case,” Pauline added. “You know… to carry the glasses around in. My case has the doctor’s name stamped on it.”

  “The cops would’ve found that, too, if she’d had one.” Barker thought for a moment. “She probably had the glasses with her, in her purse, or luggage…” He again considered the situation. “Let me think…” Barker squinted his eyes in concentration. “It’d make a helluva story if I could dig it up.” He again sank into thought. Suddenly looked up. “Her telephone directory!” Barker exclaimed. “The classified section. I’ve got to get into her apartment again!”

  “Don’t you still have that skeleton key?”

  “No. I had to return it. Wait a minute…” Barker had another idea. “Listen… go down to the manager of the building…”

  “You mean Mr. Ishman?”

  “If that’s his name. Borrow a pass key.”

  “Like this… in these pajamas?”

  “Like that. Tell him you stepped out into the hall for a minute and got yourself locked out. Then hurry up to 3-A, unlock the door—leave it barely open—and return the key to Ishman.”

  Pauline left on her errand. While she was gone, Barker impatiently mixed himself a drink. He’d finished the drink and a cigarette when Pauline returned.

  “Did you unlock the door?”

  “Yes, lover. It’s open…”

  Barker scrambled from the apartment and quickly climbed the stairs to 3-A. After a few minutes, he walked in to greet the waiting Pauline. He carried the classified directory to the table and turned to the listing of optometrists. Carefully, he ran his finger down the long list. When he looked up, finally, disappointment creased his face. “Nothing here to indicate anything,” he said slowly. He next turned to the listing of opticians.

  Pauline peered over his shoulder. Near the bottom of the columns she saw a short, deep scratch which had nearly torn off the paper. “She did it with her fingernail!” she exclaimed. “She didn’t have a pencil handy…”

  “I don’t care what she did it with,” Barker told her cheerfully. “She marked it for a reason: Dennis Vail—Optician—Hollywood Boulevard near Fairfax!”

  “You’ll have to wait until morning,” Pauline said.

  “I know it.” Barker agreed irritably. “I didn’t expect to look him up in bed tonight.”

  “How about me, lover?” Pauline asked archly, ignoring Barker’s irritation.

  Barker was never a man to push away a helping hand—too far. Pauline had been a big help. She might even be a bigger one. He smothered his boredom. “Sure,” he agreed. “You don’t have much to take off, but you might as well start shedding it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Opening the third day of the trial, Willard began to zero in his attack. I listened while the witness identified himself. “My name is Harvey Zimmerman.”

  “What is your occupation?” Willard asked.

  “I’m a bartender.”

  “Are you currently employed?”

  “No, sir. Not now.” I didn’t like either his appearance or his manner. Zimmerman was a thin, stringy man, with a balding head. His hair had been carefully combed back to conceal as much of his baldness as possible, but the pink skin of his skull shone through. He was obviously ill at ease; he drummed his fingers constantly, although noiselessly, on the arm of the chair.

  “How long have you been tending bar?” Willard asked him, taking it easy, attempting to ease the man’s tenseness.

  “Ever since the war.”

  “World War Two?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you enjoy your work?”

  “It’s a living.”

  “You’ve worked, tending bar, in many places during the last fifteen years or so?”

  “A lot of them.” Zimmerman relaxed slightly. “New York… Boston… Chicago… St. Louis… all around the

  country.”

  “But you’re living in California now, is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where was the last place—the last bar or cocktail lounge—you worked, Mr. Zimmerman?” asked Willard.

  “A joint called the Red Jay.” He gave the address of the bar in Hollywood. I could feel the hackles on my neck begin to bristle.

  “Now, you mentioned the name as being the Red Jay? Is that the name of a bird of some kind?” Willard asked.

  “I guess so. Yes sir. Like a cardinal bird. Most joints like that are named after some kind of a bird,” Zimmerman replied.

  “Most joints like what? Please explain.”

  “Joints where the Lezzes hang out. It’s sort of a way of identifying ’em. The joints, I mean.” Zimmerman’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his skinny throat.

  “You mean there’s a bar, or cocktail lounge, where Lesbians especially gather in Hollywood?” Willard asked, leading his witness on.

  “Sure.”

  “And the Red Jay, where you worked, catered especially to this kind of trade? Why?”

  “Well, the gals spend plenty of money when they’ve got it. And they keep pretty quiet, and don’t cause trouble,” Zimmerman explained. “There’s nothing illegal about it, as long as everybody behaves themselves. There’s no law says they can’t have a drink.”

  “What would happen, Mr. Zimmerman, if… an ordinary man walked into the Red Jay to have a drink? Or, say, he was also accompanied by a normal woman?”

  “It wouldn’t make much difference either way. He and his date wouldn’t have a very good time.” Zimmerman gave an uneasy, mirthless laugh.

  “Why wouldn’t they have a good time?”

  “They’d get one big cold shoulder. The girls sort of resent outsiders. And a lot of ’em become pretty hostile, if they’re drinking, to people staring at ’em or trying to ask ’em questions.”

  “But if these ‘outsiders’ asked for a drink, you’d have to serve them, wouldn’t you?”

  “Sure. I couldn’
t very well refuse. But they’d get the message they weren’t welcome and beat it pretty fast. The atmosphere’s not so hot for outsiders.”

  “What do you mean by the atmosphere, Mr. Zimmerman?”

  “The joint doesn’t jump none. The atmosphere…” The bartender searched for words. “Well it’s not much fun, except for the girls. Not many laughs, you get it? They sit around in booths and carry on very serious conversations, and listen to real sad music…” Zimmerman’s voice trailed away. “Continue,” Willard urged him on.

  Zimmerman took a deep breath. “They dance with each other, and make dates to get together again… real romantic and serious-like. And some of ’em wear men’s clothes, and call each other by nicknames like Charlie, or Bob, or Pete… you know…” Zimmerman glanced obscenely at Willard and grinned.

  “But not all of the… ah, inverts wear men’s clothes?”

  “Oh, no. Not all of ’em by any means. Matter-of-fact, most of ’em are all dressed up like real dolls. If you saw them on the street, you wouldn’t think nothing about ’em being queer or anything.”

  “And is that the kind of a place the Red Jay is?”

  “Yes, sir, that’s the kind.”

  “How long did you work at the Red Jay?”

  “A little over a year.”

  “And you quit, when?” asked Willard.

  “About two months ago.”

  Willard walked to the prosecution’s table and picked up a photograph and handed it to Zimmerman. “Have you ever seen the woman in this photograph?”

  “Yes, sir,” the bartender replied, after glancing at the picture.

  “Where did you see her?”

  “At the Red Jay.”

  “Did you talk to her?”

  “Yes, sir. Lots of times.”

  “Did you know her name?”

  “Sure. She said it was Arthea Simpson. Besides, I recognized her from her pictures in the papers.” Zimmerman added. “We all called her ‘Arty.’”

  “When you said you’d seen her and talked to her—Arthea Simpson—lots of times… how many times did you mean?”

  Zimmerman thought a moment. “She’d stop in a couple times a month, maybe. I’d say I talked to her, or served her drinks, at least twenty times.”

  “So there’s no mistake as to who she was?”

  “No, sir. No mistake.”

  “Was Arthea Simpson alone when she came to the Red Jay?”

  “No, sir. Most of the time she brought a date.”

  “In this instance, you mean she was accompanied by another woman?”

  “Yes, sir. Another Lesbian.”

  “That is reaching for a conclusion!” I interrupted. I couldn’t let it go on—not with the rapt attention on the faces of the jury.

  “Strike the answer of the witness,” Raleigh ordered.

  “All right.” Willard returned to the questioning, “When Arthea Simpson was accompanied by another woman, sometimes were they women you recognized?”

  Zimmerman nodded. “Some of ’em were women I’d seen around the club pretty often. And I know them, too.”

  “And some of them were women whom you didn’t know… or hadn’t seen before?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And what would Arthea Simpson and these women do, when they came into the Red Jay?”

  “They’d order drinks, sit around and talk. Sometimes they’d dance together. There was a sort of a high screen… put up in front of the inside doors, and the girls would maybe dance around behind it.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Then they’d kiss, and feel around with each other,” Zimmerman explained, “and dance back out on the floor again.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Because I’d see ’em, from back of the bar, I could see sort of behind the screen.”

  “And Arthea Simpson would also dance behind the screen and kiss the woman she was with, and place her hands intimately on her body?”

  “Yes, sir. She sure did.”

  “Now, Mr. Zimmerman,” Willard started his next question carefully and with deliberation, heavy with its importance. I could feel it coming—and I flinched. “You stated that some of these women Arthea Simpson brought to the Red Jay you hadn’t seen before.” The witness nodded, and Willard continued, “Can you tell me if there is anyone present in this courtroom today whom you have ever seen with Arthea Simpson at the Red Jay?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Will you please point the person out?”

  “Her!” Zimmerman pointed his finger directly at Ivy.

  Willard asked, “The defendant? Are you positive?”

  “Yes, sir. Positive!”

  “Thank you, that will be all, Mr. Zimmerman.” Willard gave me a look of satisfaction, and returned to his seat.

  I stood up and spoke directly to Raleigh. “Your Honor, before I begin cross-examination,” I said, keeping my expression emotionless, “I would like to ask for a ten-minute recess.”

  Judge Raleigh glanced at the clock and nodded. “Granted, Mr. March.”

  I took Ivy by the elbow, and escorted her to a small private consultation room, next to the judge’s chambers. I offered her a cigarette which she accepted silently. Lighting one for myself, I told her as quietly as I could, “That one is going to hurt—a lot.” She nodded numbly, but didn’t reply. “Why didn’t you tell me that you’d been to the Red Jay with Arthea Simpson?” I asked, finally.

  Ivy’s fingers picked nervously at her hair. “I didn’t know it was important,” she told me, her voice very low.

  “How can you say that?”

  “But I didn’t. I really didn’t.” She lifted her eyes, wide with apology, “I guess I’m just stupid, that’s all. I didn’t… know it was that kind of a place… so it didn’t mean anything to me.”

  I gazed into her anguished face. I wanted to believe her. Our own relationship was too close, too engulfing to leave me room to tolerate a belief in a similar one between Ivy and Arthea Simpson. “You didn’t know… or recognize it as a Lesbian hangout?” There was the possibility that she hadn’t known.

  “No… honestly.”

  “Tell me about it,” I kept my eyes on her face.

  “It was in the fall… late November, early December, I don’t remember which… in the afternoon. We’d been out to Malibu I think; we were driving back.” She paused, and seemed to gain confidence. “It was around five o’clock or so. We passed the Red Jay… it must’ve been the Red Jay, although I didn’t recognize it at the time, and Arthea said, ‘It’s time to fly the cocktail pennant’… or something like that. So she stopped and we went in.” She stared at me earnestly. “That’s all there was to it, darling. So help me!”

  “Couldn’t you tell by looking around the place?”

  She shook her head slowly, as she attempted to recall. “All I remember, it was… pretty dreary. Depressing. There was hardly anyone there, although a few girls were sitting around having drinks,” she admitted. “But I didn’t think anything about it, Cyrus! Why should I?”

  “Didn’t anyone say ‘hello’ to Arthea or give any sign of recognizing her?”

  “Not that I remember. No one seemed to pay any attention… not even that bartender. He just placed our drinks before us, and went back to the bar.”

  “Do you remember him?”

  “No, but I guess he’s the one. I’d never have recognized him again.”

  I took a final drag on my cigarette and snuffed it out in an ash tray. “Did you dance with Arthea while you were there?”

  “Of course not!” She denied it indignantly. “I didn’t like the place, so as soon as we finished our drinks, I wanted to go.”

  “What did Arthea say?”

  “She agreed… and made some joke about the music not being too good… or something like that.”

  “Did she tell you that she’d ever been there before?”

  “No. When I said I didn’t like it, she pretended she didn’t like it eit
her.”

  “All right,” I glanced at my watch, “we’d better get back.” With the court again in session, I stood in front of Zimmerman and I tried to find out if he’d been tricked in any way to appear.

  Naturally, Willard was instantly on his feet, objecting to my question.

  “But the police looked you up and asked you to testify?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you agreed to give the testimony we have heard. Why did you agree to give it?”

  Zimmerman twisted uneasily, his glance avoiding me. “I thought I should.”

  “You thought you should testify because you believe it is the duty of a good citizen?” While I asked the question, I scribbled a brief note, and dropped it on the table in front of Taylor. Taylor read it: “Has Nordeen dug up anything yet on Zimmerman?”

  “I guess that’s right,” admitted Zimmerman to my question. “The cops… police asked me to tell the truth about what I know… so I said okay.”

  “Please tell the jury honestly, Mr. Zimmerman, if you believe a good citizen… as you’ve admitted… would work in the kind of a bar you have described?”

  This time, however, I was overruled on the question. I shrugged it off, and continued, “But the pay is very good in the Red Jay, is that correct?”

  “I guess so…”

  “It’s better than most other places, isn’t it?”

  “I wouldn’t know…”

  I pushed my face close to Zimmerman and stared at him. “You’ve told the jury you’ve worked all over the country in many bars… doesn’t the Red Jay pay more money for your services than the regular bars? You must know that!”

  “Well, yes…”

  “So you’re willing to work in a place like that just for money?”

  “Money’s money,” Zimmerman replied.

  I glanced at Taylor for a reply to my note. Taylor shook his head. Returning to Zimmerman, I continued to attempt to uncover the motive for the man’s testimony, and destroy his credibility as a witness. Under my questions, Zimmerman denied that he had been fired from his job at the Red Jay, but agreed he had been involved in an argument with the owner. Although I pressed him to admit the argument concerned charges against his honesty, Zimmerman stubbornly refused to admit it. He maintained that he had grown tired of the job and wanted more time off from it.