Love Me and Die

by Louis Trimble

  The taxi driver swung to a stop at the curb. I read the meter and paid him off. I said, “The joint looks like it’s jumping.”

  The driver put the fare in his pocket. “It always is at this season,” he said. “Especially since there isn’t any other trucking outfit around.”

  I climbed out. He whipped his cab in a wide turn that carried him to the far side of the street. He drove into a gravel lot in front of a new-looking building with a sign Bar and Grill flashing in red and blue neon. I watched him go inside the building. I envied him. I could use some food and a long cold beer myself.

  But that could wait. I walked through an open gate in a high wire fence and across a wide concrete apron to the Jessup office. The windows were covered with venetian blinds slanted so that bits and pieces of people working could be seen.

  A glass door said, Jessup Trucking and Industrial. Office. Walk In.

  I walked in. The building was air conditioned. I shut the door and stood a moment, looking around and letting the cool air draw some of the heat out of me.

  I was in the front end of a room that ran the length of the building. A few feet away a counter blocked me from three rows of desks that ran lengthwise to the rear. Girls sat at the desks, working over typewriters, billing machines, calculators, and other assorted office equipment. To the right of the counter a doorway led into a hallway with one wall of glass. I could see cubbyhole offices opening onto the hallway. The door to the first office was open. Toby Jessup was standing by a desk, talking to a short plump man with curly black hair.

  I started for the hallway door. Some of the girls lifted their eyes from their work long enough to look me over. They didn’t spend much time at it. I thought they would be more interested in finishing their work and getting out of here than in looking over a strange male.

  I opened the hallway door and walked to Toby Jessup’s office. Her title, Office Manager, was on the door in black paint. I could see a closed door at the end of the hall. It had President painted on it in gold leaf. I wondered if Toby resented the difference.

  I stopped in her doorway and rapped on the wall lightly. She turned away from the plump man and saw me.

  She was a fair actress. She didn’t flicker an eyebrow. She said, “Yes?” in that cool tone she handled so well.

  I said, “I’m Brogan from West Coast Industrial Advisors.”

  She said, “Oh, yes.” She nodded at the plump man. “Señor Lerdo, our Lozano representative. He arranges our produce pickups with the Mexican farmers.” He bowed and looked me over with interest. She frowned slightly. “But we weren’t expecting you so soon, Mr. Brogan.”

  I said in a brisk, salesman’s voice, “I had time on my hands. That is an inefficient condition. West Coast is the foe of inefficiency.”

  She said to Lerdo, “We can finish these invoices later.”

  He bowed again. His dark eyes continued to show interest in me. Then he picked up the invoices reluctantly and went out. I followed Toby Jessup into her office. She sat behind her desk. She looked angry.

  “Why didn’t you call before you came?” she demanded.

  I said, “I meant what I said. I had time on my hands. Jessup Trucking seems to be operating under a full head of steam. Why should I wait until tomorrow?”

  I wondered if I had upset some plan of hers. She picked up a pencil and rapped the rubber tip on her desk blotter. She said with annoyance, “I haven’t had time to prepare anyone for your visit.”

  I said, “Isn’t that better—for what you want me to do here?”

  She thought that over. She said reluctantly, “I suppose so.”

  She continued to rap the pencil. She seemed to be trying to make up her mind about something. She said suddenly, “I have to see you after I’m through here. It’s very important that we talk alone. I …”

  She didn’t get the rest of her remark said. Her voice dried up. She was staring at the door. I turned. A man’s figure was silhouetted on the other side of the glass panel. The man lifted his hand and rapped.

  She said, “Come in.”

  The door opened. A man looked in at us. He was somewhere in his thirties, heavy-shouldered, narrow-waisted, shorter than I but tall enough to carry his big shoulders easily. He was blunt featured with a little too much jaw. His eyes were a pale blue and without much warmth in them. He had a blond butch haircut that barely hid a thin line of scar running up his left temple and over his skull.

  He looked right through me. He said, “Did you locate Turk yet?”

  Toby Jessup said stiffly, “If I had, I’d have told you. The switchboard girl has tried all the usual places he goes. He’s probably found a new hole to crawl into.”

  Her voice said that she had no time for Turk. The expression of the blond man said that he had no time for Toby Jessup. He said roughly, “Turk hasn’t touched anything for six months and you know it.”

  There was something between them. Something neither one was putting into words. It showed in their eyes very briefly. And then, as if they suddenly remembered I was in the room, their expressions blanked out.

  Toby Jessup said, “Mr. Brogan, this is Rod Gorman, our traffic manager. Mr. Brogan is from West Coast Industrial Advisors, Rod. He’s here to see if we can’t increase the efficiency of our office operations.”

  She did it as slickly as if I were the genuine article. And Gorman seemed to buy what she had to say. He gave me a quick rundown with his hard blue eyes and then put out a hand. I took it. His grip was good. His hands were rough inside. Apparently he could take a turn at pitching crates when he had to.

  He said, “West Coast—that’s in San Francisco, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “That’s quite a tan you’ve got,” he said. “I didn’t know San Francisco had that much sunshine.”

  It took me long seconds to realize that he wasn’t tossing pleasantries. His eyes were still taking me in. And they weren’t liking what they saw.

  I said, “I work out of San Francisco, not in it. Lately I’ve been in the hot country.” I waited for him to toss another challenge.

  He didn’t. He merely looked past me at Toby, turned on his heel and marched himself out of sight. I said, “What’s with him?”

  “He’s been on the go since seven o’clock this morning,” she said. “He’s tired.”

  “He sounded more suspicious than tired,” I said.

  Her lips tightened. “The door’s open,” she said in a whisper. Her tone suggested that I was the next thing to an idiot.

  She rose abruptly. “I’ll introduce you to the others.”

  I said, “You had something more to say to me?”

  “Later,” she said. “And please be careful when we’re together.”

  She was more nervous than the setup warranted, it seemed to me. Her door might be open, but the other doors in the hall were closed. And it was empty. The racket from the machines behind the glass wall was enough to drown out our words five feet from where we stood.

  I just said, “Lead me to the slaughter.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  She was the kind of person that made me want to shock her, to take some of the tight, disapproving expression from her face. I said, “I hear the boss lady has terrific knees.”

  She said with cold savagery, “Bonita is terrific all over. Ask any able-bodied male in Ramiera.”

  I didn’t answer that one. Bitchiness is one thing I can’t match. Like most men, I just pull back into my shell when it’s thrown at me.

  I followed Toby Jessup down the hall to the door with the gold leaf on the frosted glass panel. She knocked briefly. A voice that was cool and brisk, yet somehow warm and exciting at the same time, said, “It’s unlocked.”

  Toby opened the door. I looked over her head. A woman was framed in the entrance to another office. She wasn’t just standing. There was too much regality to her for that. I didn’t think she was the type who would just stand or sit or lie down—or do any o
f the things we commoners do.

  I began to understand Toby Jessup’s bitchiness. I could feel the impact of Bonita Jessup before she ever lifted her head and touched me with her eyes. And once she did that, I was gone. In orbit, far, far out.

  I remembered to close my mouth as Toby Jessup said formally, “Mrs. Jessup, this is Mr. Brogan.” She went through her routine.

  Bonita Jessup detached herself from the doorway and floated toward me. She was as tall as the redhead, but she wasn’t quite so streamlined. She was what old-fashioned novels called a full-blown woman.

  She was a brunette. Her eyes were dark and sooty behind cheek-brushing lashes. Her nose was high-bridged, almost Spanish in its arrogance. Her mouth had all the languorous warmth of a tropical night.

  She wore her dark hair in a soft bun at the nape of her neck. She had poured her figure into a white suit that on any other woman would have looked ridiculous. But on her it was the right thing. When she moved, I saw that she didn’t have to bind herself into a foundation to make the suit look good. What moved under the jacket and skirt was all uninhibited Bonita.

  She said in that cool-warm voice, “I hope you can help us with our problem, Mr. Brogan.” She put out a hand. I took it.

  I had a brief moment of dreaming of all the problems I would like to help her with. Then I came back to reality and said that I hoped so too.

  She gave her hand a tug. I opened my fingers and let it float away from me. I couldn’t remember regretting the loss of anything quite so much.

  She said, “Did you plan an itinerary for Mr. Brogan, Toby?”

  “I wasn’t expecting him until tomorrow,” Toby said.

  I could feel the antagonism between them. It wasn’t the same type Toby and Rod Gorman shared. That had had a male versus female touch to it; this was pure female on both sides.

  Bonita said, “In that case, why don’t I brief Mr. Brogan tonight? You can plan to take over tomorrow.”

  Toby took the dismissal with good grace. Probably, I thought, because she didn’t think me worth fighting about. She said to me, “We open the office at eight, Mr. Brogan.” She marched down the hall and out of sight.

  Bonita Jessup put her fingertips on my arm, up where the biceps grow. It wasn’t a touch to ask for my attention. It was a probing of my muscle.

  She said, “This is my secretary’s office. She’s ill this evening. My office is through here, Mr. Brogan.”

  She took her fingers away. I followed her into her office. She took a swivel chair behind an executive desk. I lowered myself into a padded chair.

  She said, “Where would you like to begin, Mr. Brogan?”

  “I said, “I think I’ll leave that decision up to you.”

  She nodded. She said, “Let’s start with Turk Thorne, then, shall we?”

  I thought about playing out my hand and saying, “Who is Turk Thorne, Mrs. Jessup?”

  But one look into those dark eyes changed my mind. They were laughing at me. And behind the laughter was something less humorous, a wariness, a waiting. And knowledge.

  I said, “When you find him, tell him not to telegraph his punches. He’ll last longer that way.”

  “And when will I find him?” she asked. “And where?”

  I said, “He woke up in my office just in time to watch me pass out from drinking the liquor he fixed with a mickey. I slept for nine hours after that, so I can’t help you much.”

  She shook her head. “Turk didn’t dope your liquor, Mr. Coyle, isn’t it?”

  I said, “Is that the way you want it? That I’m Joe Coyle? Or do you like Toby Jessup’s idea better?”

  “We’ll use Toby’s idea for a while,” she said. Nothing knocked her off beat. She had that magnificent mouth turned up in a light smile as if she was enjoying herself. She had the same kind of laughter dancing on the surface of her eyes. She was in superb control of herself.

  She said, “How did Toby get in touch with you?”

  “She came into the office and woke me up,” I said. Since Bonita seemed to know all the essentials, I didn’t feel I was betraying Toby Jessup’s confidence.

  “And she asked you to come here and spy on me?”

  I said, “She asked me to come here to check everybody. That would include you, I suppose.”

  “Check for what?”

  I said, “We hadn’t gotten that far.” I took out my cigarettes and offered her one. She accepted it. I gave her a light. I was surprised my hand didn’t shake. I was close enough to her to smell her perfume. It was gentle at first, but it had a delayed wallop.

  I sat back down and lit a cigarette for myself. I said, “I’m in the dark, Mrs. Jessup. I might as well be frank with you. I came here tonight hoping I could make sense out of a number of things.”

  “What sort of things?”

  She had a way of asking the kind of questions that left me no room for sparring. I stopped playing word games with her. I said, “Things like my office being torn up by Turk Thorne.”

  “Turk didn’t do that,” she said. “He found it that way.”

  I said, “I won’t argue the point—yet.”

  She showed signs of impatience. “What else brought you, Mr. Coyle?”

  I said, “Art Ditmer.”

  She drew on the cigarette. She let the smoke trickle from barely parted lips. She said, “Aren’t you a little premature? I’m not to meet Mr. Ditmer until tomorrow night.”

  I said, “How did you know it was Art you were to meet? He didn’t give a name when he phoned you.”

  She quirked her lips at me in amusement. “You sound terribly like a detective, Mr. Coyle. Am I on trial for something?”

  Thinking about Art Ditmer helped take a little of Bonita’s impact from my system. I said, “That doesn’t answer the question.”

  Her voice was still amused. “If you must know, Turk recognized him and told me there was a detective working in our warehouse. When I got his call, I put two and two together.”

  I said, “Turk was a busy boy. What’s his stake in all this?”

  “In all what?” she said. She was mocking me.

  I said, “Art came here looking for some kind of trouble. He told you over the phone he had information about your company. You immediately agreed to meet him. That means you have a problem.”

  “You can add two and two also,” she said.

  I said angrily, “I’m not here to play games, Mrs. Jessup. Art Ditmer is my partner. He’s also my friend. He came here on an undercover investigation. According to you, he was recognized by Turk Thorne. And he made a date with you for tomorrow night. I learned all this from his reports. He phoned his last one to Tucson on Sunday.”

  I leaned forward and butted my cigarette. “Since then he hasn’t been heard from. In simple words, he’s disappeared.”

  I leaned back. “What kind of an answer do you think I should get when I add all this up?”

  She stopped smiling; the laughter went out of her eyes. She leaned forward, the cigarette curling smoke up between her fingers. Her eyes fixed themselves intently on my face.

  She said, “Turk has disappeared too. What kind of answer should I get?”

  I wondered briefly whether I should tell her about Turk Thorne. I dropped the idea. It wasn’t my business to tell anyone. Not yet. Not until I knew more about where Art Ditmer stood. And not until I could get myself clear of the possible frame ready to drop over me.

  I said, “Let’s stop sparring, shall we? You sent Turk Thorne to Tucson to search Art’s office and mine for the Jessup file. Isn’t that right?”

  She said, “Perhaps I did, perhaps I didn’t. For the sake of argument, let’s say I did.”

  She was cool, completely self-possessed. Pinning her down might be a harder job than I could handle. But I had to have some answers. I had to know what Art had learned about Jessup Trucking. Or what someone thought he had learned. I had to find out for Art’s sake and for my own. And I didn’t think I had very much time left in which to work.
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  I said, “Let’s say you did. Thorne offered to tell me something about Art in exchange for the Jessup file. That was last night or early this morning, however you want to look at it. But Art hasn’t reported since Sunday.”

  She was running even with me and ready to take the rail and go ahead. She said, “Are you trying to say that I caused Art Ditmer’s disappearance?”

  I said, “That’s right.”

  “Why would I?”

  “Because you thought he had sent reports about you back to the office. And you were afraid of what might be in those reports.”

  She smiled again, showing fine white teeth. She stubbed out the cigarette smoldering between her fingers. She took another cigarette from a box on her desk. She lit it with a book match.

  She blew out the match with a thin puff of smoke. She said, “Why should I have anything to be afraid of, Mr. Coyle?”

  She had a disconcerting way of putting everything in the form of a question, putting me on the defensive by forcing me to frame an answer.

  I said, “If you haven’t anything to be afraid of, you’ll tell me what the trouble is here.”

  She sat for a long moment. She took a deep, thoughtful drag on her cigarette. She shut her eyes and pressed fingertips lightly to the lids. In a lot of women, the whole act would have had a phony touch. But not the way Bonita Jessup did it. She was thinking, and thinking hard.

  She opened her eyes. She said, “There is no trouble, no trouble at all.”

  Anger pushed me to my feet. I yelled, “Art Ditmer was here, checking your company out. And now he’s disappeared. Turk Thorne comes to my office and tears the place apart and dopes me. If he didn’t, someone else did. Toby Jessup came to me for help. I add that together and get ‘trouble’ for an answer.”

  She said, “Are you trying to let everyone know why you’re here?”

  I took a deep breath. She made me feel a little like a fool. But not for long. I was still too burned up. I said, “If you won’t tell me, I’ll have to make a guess. And I’ll operate from that guess because it’s the only thing I have to go on.” I leaned toward her. “And you might not like the conclusions I come up with, Mrs. Jessup.”