Missing Amanda

by Duane Lindsay

  Cassidy hated them. Well, not hated exactly, so much as she envied and wanted to become one of them. She watched them come and go from her station and only her formidable typing skills kept her from making mistakes in the daily flow of god-awful boring paperwork.

  She typed ninety-five words a minute without error, on the bulky recalcitrant old linoleum green Remington typewriter they’d assigned her, the absolute best in the entire department of forty girls. Girls, for Christ sake. Evelyn was at least thirty-five and she knew for a fact that Debbie, three desks back, was a grandmother.

  Cassidy gulped warm bourbon and reluctantly chose the gray skirt in the middle. Still in her underwear, skirt in one hand, drink in the other, she padded barefoot the nine feet to her living room and bent over the console radio, her most prized possession. She turned a fat knob and music filled the room. Another knob turned it down before Mrs. Beloski in 3F could complain—the bitch—and something rock and roll filled her ears. Splish Splash. Bobby Darin or some crap.

  Cassidy wasn’t in the mood. She turned yet another knob and found something with strings, Perry Como singing Hot Diggity and she smiled, willing to accept it. She placed the skirt on the back of a chair, refilled her glass and went into the bathroom. The tub, a chipped porcelain thing squatting like an alien mushroom, with rusty metal faucets with chalky handles and a pale pink plastic curtain hanging around it, seemed to beckon her.

  She started the water and poured in bubble bath, sloshing it until the bubbles were frothing. She picked up a movie magazine from the lid of the commode, stripped and climbed in carefully, settling back to loosen the aches of an eight-hour typing shift. Occasionally she sipped from her glass, or hummed along with a song. Mostly she just lay there, letting the day soak away.

  Maybe, she thought, she’d save up enough for one of those new televisions. She’d seen an ad for a Philco with a ten-inch screen for two hundred bucks. She shook her head at the very idea of saving two hundred bucks from her typist salary. A buck twenty an hour, before taxes, barely paid for her rent and food. A television was a pipe dream.

  She thought about Hollywood and imagined being rich and famous and decided, as she did almost every day, that being poor sucked.

  *

  The Aragon Ballroom shimmered in red neon. A live band played swing and jazz behind silver stands over a crowded dance floor and a little area with little black and gold tables where drinks were served to people watching each other.

  The band was Teddy Nedderling’s Swinging Sounds, the vocalist a svelte brunette named Dee Malone. The dance floor convulsed with dancers in suits or gowns, slacks or skirts, ladies of the evening and white clad sailors from nearby Navy Pier. Fights were rare, good humor flowed as furiously as the drinks and few went home alone.

  A hard-looking blond in a tight gray skirt leaned against the bar and Lou nudged Monk in the ribs. “What’cha think?” He waved to a cigarette girl and bought 2 packs of Pall Malls, slipping her a half a buck. “Keep it, sis,” he told her.

  “Big spender,” but she laughed wickedly.

  “Nice,” Monk agreed. “Who first?” His glasses with thick black frames made him look like a college professor or one of those guys who invented the A- bomb. They muted his movie star features but attracted, he thought, a higher-class dame.

  “I dunno. Whose turn, is it?” Lou looked squat and unappealing next to Monk—movie stars looked unappealing next to Monk—but he didn’t mind. He didn’t have Monk’s height or build. Or his chiseled chin or blue eyes. Or his wardrobe or his smooth assurance, or his hair. But Lou was a hell of a dancer. It balanced.

  The ladies always wanted Monk first but were often put off by his language and stiffness. Lou Fleener they scanned with a dubious lack of interest until he gave them a twirl on the dance floor. Then oh, how the eyes widened, the posture straightened, the hair got touched up. All in all, it worked out fine. Monk, since Inez, wasn’t all that interested in women any more anyway.

  “Mine, I suppose,” he said. He pawed through a dish of nuts looking for a cashew, frowned when he came up empty, shrugged and approached the blonde with that expression still on his face.

  The woman looked up, focused, and a slow smile softened her hard features, like dawn over concrete. She was pretty in a cold way, Lou decided, watching, but she looked out of place, as if the gaiety oppressed her. She gave the impression of prairies and windblown mountain peaks, horse and cattle, Oklahoma, maybe, or Kansas.

  She didn’t appear rich, and usually women sat in packs, like hens or hyenas, depending on the amount of alcohol or the desperation as the evening slipped away. A steady stream of men had approached her, all drifting away quickly, deterred by the hard eyes.

  Monk swung and hit. He took her arm, she smiled up, and they drifted to the floor, his hand on her back, jealous eyes covering them. The Swinging Sounds played the ‘Continental’ at a furious clip and Monk cringed. Fast dancing wasn’t his best suit.

  They went around for a while, lost in the blur of dancers and when they reappeared she sagged and appeared disappointed, exchanging quick words as Monk placed her back at the bar and returned to Lou.

  “No go?”

  “Nice lady,” Monk said. “Bad luck on the song.”

  Monk shook his head, disgusted.

  “The ‘Continental, I ask you.” He plucked a comforting cashew from a new bowl, gestured for another beer with his free hand. “If it had been a slow dance...”

  “Sure,” Lou watched the blond with thoughtful consideration. How would she respond? “Bad break.”

  “I’d have done better with ‘You belong to Me,’ or maybe something by Jo Stafford or Perry Como,” Monk complained.

  “Okay if I try?” Lou asked.

  “Or ‘Don’t get around much anymore’; that would have done it. Made her swoon. What? You think you can do better, be my guest.”

  “Thanks.” Lou walked over and leaned forward to be heard. She turned to him, a freshly lit cigarette between her lips. Close up the feel of open spaces was stronger and the hardness seemed muted. Lou wondered where she came from. “Dance?” he asked.

  She inspected him like he was beef, discounted at the end of the week for quick sale “No.” She turned back to the bar.

  “One dance,” Lou said. “Just one.” He smiled his crooked smile, the one that made ’em grin at the mischievous or frown at the imbecile. This one frowned.

  “Scram. You’re not my type.”

  “Hard case,” Lou said. “I don’t even get a chance?”

  “Beat it. I’m busy.”

  Lou laughed. Women wanted to be chased for more than beauty, but never looked twice at a Lou Fleener. Their reaction on the dance floor never failed to amuse him. “C’mon; I’ll surprise you.”

  Cassidy Adams sighed, resigned. Another annoying jerk, another dead end, another blind alley. Sometimes, she thought, the ball bounces your way, sometimes it doesn’t bounce at all. She’d been here an hour and been offered a dozen drinks and nobody; not a one of them, had measured up. All too poor or too slick or too married—she’d seen the rings; couldn’t they at least remember to remove the wedding ring—was that too much to ask? —or too weird like the movie star guy who danced like the goddam Tin Man. He’d come close to interesting her.

  So close, she thought drearily. So very far away.

  The steno pool never felt more like a prison, her cramped apartment a cage. Depressed at her prospects she drank too quickly and white wine went up her nose. Snorting, she patted her face with a napkin, busying herself until he got the hint.

  But he was still at her shoulder. Would he never get the idea? Not smiling—that would encourage him—she blew smoke in his direction, which was pointless since everyone smoked. The atmosphere in the Aragon was like Venus and all the princes in the swamp were frogs. Another depressing thought.

  “One dance?” he said with the persistence of a leech and, “one dance,” she agreed out of weariness and resignation and self-pity. God, she hat
ed her life. One dance became eleven and Cassidy couldn’t begin to imagine what had just happened.

  The guy—this short dumpy unattractive sort of frog—had turned out to be Fred Astaire in a cheap suit. When he twirled her around the floor she became Ginger Rogers. Cassidy was literally swept off her feet.

  The room was a blur of lights and sound and motion. Occasionally she caught a glimpse of Cary Grant there at the bar and once she compared him to the guy dancing with her and felt a pang of self-revulsion at her own shallowness. If only this guy was that guy...

  Her partner didn’t talk which was a relief. He led her around the floor, as adept at the Tango as Swing. His Waltz was a thing of beauty; Cassidy wanted to melt in his arms. Maybe, she thought, they could be friends. Maybe, she thought, I’m disgusting.

  Lou was enjoying himself. He always enjoyed himself, dancing with a woman. It amused him to feel their reaction when they danced with him. The tight muscles relaxing as they learned to trust him, the knowledge that he was making them look good. He didn’t know her name.

  “Way to go, Lou,” someone said as they twirled by. The dance floor had thinned to give them room. He sensed the looks of the other dancers and could tell she knew about the eyes on her. Eventually he returned her to the bar.

  “Drink?”

  “Scotch with a twist of lemon.” She made a twirling motion with her finger. “Where did you learn to dance like that?”

  Lou was used to that question. “I took lessons at Arthur Murray’s.”

  “How many lessons?”

  “Three.”

  “Three?” Dubious, of course, she asked, “and what do you do for a living, Mr.—?”

  “Fleener. Call me Lou.”

  She smiled. “I’m Cassidy Adams.” She held out a hand and he took it, squeezing gently. “Cassidy.”

  “I’m a private investigator.” Sometimes that turned them off. The modern women wanted a new age Galahad who worked on Madison Avenue or State Street or, best yet, was middle management for the generals—Motors or Electric. A guy who wanted a house in the suburbs and a car and two children.

  And a wife.

  But Cassidy looked interested, not repulsed. Her hair was worn in a sort of wavy style that suited her narrow face and she had a slight gap between her front teeth. Lou liked her, but sensed a predatory quality. He decided on impulse to be open.

  “I’ve been a private eye since I got out of Korea. I was an MP.”

  She looked confused, a pretty sight.

  “Military police—until ‘52, came to Chicago and opened my own shop. I’ve got an office near here; between Addison and the El tracks. I got a ‘50 Mercury Coupe and 26 bucks in the bank.”

  “You got a gun?”

  “Sure.” He wondered if she wanted to see it. No one ever had before, but maybe this time? He wondered if he should have brought it.

  “Swell,” she said seriously. “Dance with me again.”

  The band was playing a two-step, which didn’t give a lot of room to show off, but he led her around, doing his best. When they returned to the bar she looked flush. “How do you do that?”

  Cassidy sipped scotch and fanned herself with a menu. What a dancer! What a shame. Despising herself for being shallow, but look at him—she tried to dampen his enthusiasm with real ambivalence.

  “You live near here?” he asked.

  “A furnished flat near the Oak street beach.”

  “Tony,” he said, impressed with the geography.

  “Tony,” she agreed. “Sure. With a big doorman.”

  On an impulse she added, “You wanna go for a walk?” Get him out of here, cool him off.

  “Sure. Let me tell Monk.” He slipped through the crowd like a pudgy ghost, touching people on the arm to move them and Cassidy was surprised to see him stop at the heartthrob who glanced at her and smiled that leer she detested in men—they were all so smug—and clapped Lou on the shoulder. They came back and Lou offered his arm.

  “What’d he say?” she asked.

  “Who?”

  “Your friend. He looked my way and said something.”

  “He said ‘I could have had the Tennessee Waltz.’”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Means he’s jealous. C’mon.” Lou led her out to a typical hot muggy late summer evening. Traffic was light but noisy, the El clattered overhead and a pair of sailors staggered away with women of dubious character.

  “Where to?” Lou asked.

  “Is your office around here? I’ve never seen a PI’s place.”

  “It’s nothing special,” Lou said, but Cassidy could tell he was pleased. Show any interest at all, she thought, and they’re putty.

  “It’s a couple of blocks,” he said. He took her arm and they walked slowly. To Cassidy’s surprise, he was an interesting talker. Not too much full of himself, or needy or clingy, Lou Fleener seemed to have no desire to impress her, which of course impressed her. He was surprisingly competent, like he knew who he was and accepted it. It was odd and refreshing and her desire to be friends grew. She couldn’t remember when she enjoyed herself with a man this much. In his company, she almost forgot her crummy apartment and lousy job and dismal prospects. She liked this guy.

  They reached an older brick building, one of thousands built in the twenties; three stories, door right on the street. He said, “My place,” but a lot of muscle appeared from the shadows, all bulk and menace and Cassidy thought, ‘aw hell.’

  Lou thought, ‘Not now.’ He placed an arm around Cassidy and guided her behind him.

  Milt Stiltmeyer stepped out from the jewelry store doorway and four other large types materialized from the shadows. They all wore dark suit coats stretched thin over bulging muscles despite the heat of the evening.

  Milt said, “You’re coming with us.”

  “Aw, Millie” Lou said wearily. “We’ve done this already.” He backed up, the keys to the office still in his hand. The street was mostly deserted and the neighborhood wasn’t one to expect much help from either the police or residents, which was true of a lot of Chicago where mind your own business was an anthem. Stalling, he said, “Guys? What’s with the coats? It’s eighty-seven degrees. You have to be mad to wear those.” He shook his head and laughed a little, just one of the guys. He felt in his pockets for loose change.

  The circle closed. “Let her go,” Lou said but they advanced like a slow avalanche of cheap suits. He smelled sweet cologne and gasped at the odor. In a stage whisper he said to Cassidy, “when I say go...go.”

  He threw his change in someone’s face, kicked a kneecap, slapped a cheek, which made a meaty thwack like a fish hitting a baseball, and shoved another. An opening appeared and he pushed Cassidy through it.

  “Go,” he said and grabbed a necktie—why would a thug wear a necktie? —to close the gap. Pleased, he heard footsteps running away.

  Milt’s guys fanned out, a little farther away than before. Lou felt the heat coming off them in waves, though maybe it was their aftershave. All-Spice—for the inner thug. “I don’t want trouble,” he said gently and a couple of the goons laughed, a sound like hippos gargling.

  “Come along quiet,” Milt suggested.

  “Aw, I don’t want to do that either.” Lou took a battered pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and shook one free. He lit it while he studied them. The five guys weighed a half a ton, mostly muscle, probably had guns or brass knuckles or knives. Lou weighed just under one sixty, soaking wet, which he was, in the infernal humidity of Lake Michigan.

  Back against the wall, Lou considered, how good was he? Photo- eidetic cell retention, he thought, Monk’s explanation for the inexplicable, his ability to fight. But how did Louis Aparicio toss out a double play from deep short? How did Einstein figure that E = MC thing, whatever it was? How could Lou Fleener get out of this one? Did his skills run to five determined mastodons?

  At least Cassidy was out of the way. He peered through the crowd and saw her, clinging to a brick
wall as if it could hide her. Good. Sighing, he decided to get started. He flicked his cigarette at the nearest guy, a blonde neo Nazi in a brush cut. The ember struck an eye and the guy bent over screaming, hands over his face.

  Never stop moving, Lou thought; they can’t hit what they can’t catch. He impaled someone with an ignition key in the chest, not very damaging, but painful and surprising, raked another across the shins with the side of his heel. They both yowled and he pivoted between them, like ducking between a pair of redwoods. He spotted a hubcap on the, sidewalk, dipped to pick it up and spun around, holding it like a tiny shield just as the third guy swung a massive fist at where his face would have been.

  The hubcap, sharp from wear and rust, caught him between the knuckles, probably severing a tendon. Lou threw the cap to the ground and it bounced back, hitting Milt in the crotch as he was moving forward. Lou stepped to the left and ducked a fist which scraped against the dirty red brick of the liquor store wall, shredding skin as it went by.

  Juking and jiving in a ballet of ferocity, pudgy Lou Fleener became a blur of violence. A piece of dirty rag was caught at the edge of the building. He grabbed it as he dodged and twisted it around like a gym towel. As he hoped, they were getting in each other’s way. Two of them neared and he snapped the rag like a whip. A nose spurted blood and Lou re-twisted and snapped again. The rag was just wet enough to be heavy, just thin enough to braid. It spewed dirt and crud with every snap.

  But it was like a slingshot against a tank. The muscle was disorganized and bleeding, but they were too close and too big.

  Lou had never fought five guys before. He had no idea how far his talent went, or how it worked really. Did it run dry after a while, like batteries wearing out? He dropped the rag and grabbed at his hip pocket for a fountain pen. He flicked off the cap and impaled a huge hand that had momentarily paused against the wall. Blood flew again and he pivoted to the left and under a pair of arms, coming up almost against the chest of Milt himself.