“But Joe Navarro might pull a fast—”
“He hasn't any reason to want to hurt me.”
“He might if he sees you with me. And no—”
“Why? There's nothing wrong with my hiring you. I'm your client. I want you to investigate my brother's death. It's the most natural thing in the world. Besides, I can't stay here in your apartment. You might even have some more ugly callers.”
“I suppose so. But I don't want you near me when I brace Navarro. He's an ugly character himself, and—”
“I'd be safer with you than anyplace else. So I'll just put a little powder on my nose, and we'll go to the Red Rooster."
"Elaine, I won't have it, it's out of the—”
“And don't think you're going to sneak off and see Bunny unless I'm with you. So stop arguing.”
"Who's arguing? It's settled. This is no arg—"
“Oh, I'll powder in the car. Let's go.”
We went.
Chapter Ten
The red rooster was a long low building on La Cienega just off Westmount Drive, part of Restaurant Row. It was built of stained redwood, and above the entrance was a bright bas-relief of a crowing rooster, looking so strong and virile and beautiful that wildly cackling hens should have been lined up for blocks.
I had phoned before leaving the Spartan and talked to the headwaiter, so we quickly got settled at a table away from ringside, where it was unlikely we'd be seen by the performers in the floor show and yet could see clearly ourselves. Elaine and I ordered drinks a minute or two before the show started at nine o'clock.
She reached across the table and patted my hand, saying, “Isn't this fun?”
“Grand.”
I had often spoken with more enthusiasm, but she smiled anyway as the lights dimmed. The band blared loudly in a fanfare, and from the left of the stage a toothily smiling emcee dressed in a dinner jacket, satin-striped trousers and black tie pranced onto stage center. A microphone had been set up there and he grabbed it with both hands and bent it toward the audience, leaning forward winningly, as if he were going to kiss everybody at ringside, boys and girls alike.
I didn't listen to his syrupy greeting, or the introduction to the opening act, but looked around the club. It was a pleasant place, with the smoky rose and beige tones and low ceiling that give such rooms a feeling of warm intimacy. I had been a bit provoked by Elaine's insistence that she was going to stick at my side through thick and thin, and so on, but I had to admit now that—even under the circumstances—it was quite enjoyable to be here in the Red Rooster, drinking a highball and sharing a table with the lovely Miss Emerson.
A gal was singing about a long-lost lover, and judging by her voice the singer had to be beautiful. I took a look. She was. Her lover was “gone ... gone ... go-one!” she shouted, as if hoping he'd hear her no matter how far he'd fled, and now we all knew what had chased him away. She finished the song and was replaced by a comedy team, followed by a clever tap dancer and a vocal group.
Then the toothy emcee tripped onstage to announce with strained exuberance that we had reached the climax of our festivities, and now Wade and Navarro would present their renowned Dance of the Red Rooster. With a last flash of teeth and sweeping wave of hand he cried, “Wade ... and Navarro!” then left, taking the microphone with him, as the lights dimmed again.
The table at which Elaine and I sat was to the right of the stage's center, back a few rows from the front but providing a good view of the action. A red spotlight flooded the floor, and then Wade and Navarro appeared simultaneously, one from the left and the other from the right of the stage. They ran to opposite sides of the floor and stopped, waiting for the quick burst of applause to swell and die.
The costumes were good. Each of the dancers wore about as little as the law allowed, yet enough so that it was easy to tell they represented fowl. The Red Rooster was Joe Navarro, and though cockfights are between roosters, not a rooster and a hen, Bunny was obviously the rooster's female counterpart. No type or amount of costuming, when as much of her showed as now showed, would ever make Bunny look like a rooster.
Navarro wore an erect and brilliantly red counterpart of a rooster's comb on his head, a tight cap covering his black hair, sleeves of white feathers on his arms, red, blue and yellow feathers around his knees. Bunny wore the same type of feathers on arms and knees, plus a tight cap of white feathers on her head and a very few more over her jaunty breasts. Behind each was affixed a large tail of multi-colored feathers, long and brilliant, swaying with their movements. From both heels of each of the dancers jutted long curved, brightly gleaming silver spurs.
They looked more like mutant macaws than rooster and hen, but it wasn't likely that anybody would complain. Despite the apparent profusion of feathers, there was a great deal of skin showing, gleaming in the rosy light. They paused at opposite sides of the floor, then as the applause subsided into silence appeared to notice each other and moved sideways, sliding their spurred feet. They strutted forward, danced around each other in a circle that became smaller and smaller until they almost touched.
The band, silent until now, burst suddenly into a shrill dissonant chord and the dancers leaped into the air, arms flailing like wings, spurs flashing in the light like steel knives. As the band played a wild melody, the dancers collided in air, reeled apart, swirling around in tight circles, then leaped upon each other again.
They were really good. Even Navarro. He seemed like fluid steel, graceful but strong and in complete control of every movement. Both dancers leaped through the air, barely missing each other, spinning as they leaped, the bright tail feathers whipping in colorful arcs behind them. They could have stopped then, and the act would have been a good one—but the best was yet to come.
The sound and tempo of the music changed, became more sensual—and so did the dance. Both performers stopped after a leap through the air and stood motionless, looking at each other. After a long moment, the dance began again. It was the same as before—and yet not the same. They went through almost identical motions, but it was that “almost” that made the difference. It was a subtle thing, not bold or obvious, but it became apparent that some of those notes from the orchestra must have contained the melody of a mating call.
They leaped against each other, their bodies touching, sliding, caressing in the way a man's hands might caress a woman's thigh, softly, lingeringly. The feathers touched, intermingled. Their movements became slower, more studied, increasingly erotic. And then the tempo changed again as they neared the climax of the act.
Both dancers sprang apart and reeled around as if all those feathers were sticking into them, as if they were going to become completely unstrung, and for a moment I had the weird sensation that two giant birds were going to leap out over the audience and come down on us with spurs ripping and tearing.
Then Bunny and Navarro turned to face each other again. He advanced on her with what could only be construed as grim purpose. Bunny quivered and waggled and shook as if she were going to lay an egg. A fertile egg. She leaped into the air and flapped her wings and waggled her tail and stirred up a regular storm. There was another storm of activity, and Navarro, the Red Rooster, won. At the very climax of the act. Bunny was flat on her back and the Red Rooster was crouched over her.
When the lights came on again the stage was empty, except for a few colorful feathers on the floor. The audience exploded into applause. Bunny and Navarro ran onstage, hands clasped, the tight caps removed from their heads.
Elaine said to me, “That was exciting, wasn't it?”
“Yeah. They may have to get married.”
“Oh, Shell! Why do you say such things?”
I started to answer her, but stopped.
Now that the show was over, I intended to go backstage and have a chat with Navarro. Maybe more than a chat, depending on how he reacted. Maybe I'd swat him again. But there was a hitch.
The dancers bowed, and as they straightened up Navarro turned to hi
s left, smiling broadly, and looked straight at me. He couldn't have known I was here, at the table on which his eyes happened to fall, but he looked right at me. And if I'd thought that perhaps somebody might already have told him Shell Scott was in the audience, I would have thought so no longer.
The house lights were on now, and though Elaine and I weren't obvious in the big crowd, the combination of Navarro's accidental glance in this direction and the fact that I do not exactly melt away into the surroundings, must have made me suddenly seem to him like the whole audience. He froze. He hadn't quite straightened up, and he stopped moving while still bent slightly forward. For half a second his face held the happy expression, the smile and flush of exhilaration—and then his face fell apart into shock and surprise, a blend of incomprehension and disbelief. Slowly he straightened up, features twisted, and took two short steps toward me before he remembered where he was.
And that told me all I needed to know about Joe Navarro.
His extreme reaction couldn't have been caused by our beefs last night, by anything which had occurred between him and me. The reason for his sudden and violent shock could only have been that he thought I was dead.
He must have thought that, by now, I was shot full of holes, lying on Rossmore or in the morgue, and thus couldn't possibly be here in the Red Rooster. That meant, of course, that he had known in advance of the recent attempt on my life, the slugs flying from the rifle in that car. If he'd heard about it after the fact, he would also have heard that the attempt had failed.
He turned stiffly, nodded automatically to the crowd, grabbed Bunny's hand and they went off through a draped archway on stage left, the farthest spot from me. In a moment Bunny came back into view—alone. She looked puzzled, but smiled and bowed to the continuing applause.
I got up in a hurry, started weaving through the tables toward that draped archway. Elaine called something after me, but I kept going. As I went through the drapes and into a short passage beyond, I saw Bunny, glancing back over her shoulder. When she saw me she looked surprised, too, but not in the way Navarro had. She seemed surprised but pleased.
“Why, Shell,” she said. “How nice. Did you catch the act?”
“Yeah, it was great. But I'm in a hurry. Bunny. Where did Navarro go?”
“He was in a hurry too. It was the oddest—”
“Where is he, Bunny? I've got to see him right now.”
“Well, he ... acted so funny. Grabbed my hand and pulled me back here and left. He didn't even go out for the bow with me. I suppose he went to his dressing room.”
“Where is it? Which one?”
She pointed. “Around to the right there, number three.”
“One thing. How did he act when you got together again tonight? Or whenever you met for the first time after you left the Srinagar with me?”
“That was when I came to the club tonight. He was already here, and he seemed just like usual. He didn't even mention my leaving the boat without him—and naturally I didn't tell him about it, after what you said.”
“Don't.”
“He even seemed ... oh, in a better mood than usual. As if he were pleased about something.”
“Yeah, and I know what it was.”
I hurried around the corner and down the hall to room three, grabbed the knob and threw the door open. It crashed against the wall and I went inside fast. Joe wasn't in sight. The long, multi-colored tail feathers lay in a heap on the floor, the rooster's-comb cap alongside it.
I jumped back into the corridor. On my right, at its end, was a door, slightly ajar. I ran to it, threw it open as I heard a car engine start. Outside was the club's parking lot, bordering Westmount Drive, and as I stepped onto the asphalt a beige T-Bird skidded out into the street and swung left.
An attendant stood in the middle of the lot, watching the Thunderbird leave. I called to him, “Was that Joe Navarro?”
He swung his head around. “Yeah. Man, was he in a hurry. Came out half dressed, putting his shirt on and carrying his shoes. Lit out like a—”
I didn't hear the rest of it. A wire fence enclosed the lot, and the quickest way to my Cad was back through the club. I ran inside, cut across the dance floor and headed for the front door. From the corner of my eye I saw Elaine standing alongside our table and then hurrying toward me. I kept going, made it to the Red Rooster's entrance on La Cienega and outside. Elaine was right behind me.
I took off in a run toward the Cad, jumped in and stuck my keys in the ignition. As the engine caught and roared Elaine threw open the right-hand door and climbed in.
“Get out of here!” I yelled at her.
“No.”
I swore under my breath, but there wasn't time to argue. I cramped the wheel as I slipped the car into gear and tromped on the gas pedal. The Cad lurched forward and out of the parking space, bumper nicking the rear bumper of the car ahead, and then we were roaring down the street. I hit the brakes and swung right at Beverly Place, right again at Westbourne Drive and jammed down the gas pedal. I skidded into Rosewood Avenue and roared around the circle, fishtailing into West Knoll Drive with the tires shrieking. I couldn't know if Navarro might have turned off somewhere before here, but I did know that if he'd kept going down Westmount, in the direction he'd been headed when he'd left the lot, then only seconds ago he would have passed the spot where I was now.
This was a narrow street paralleling La Cienega, and only one car was in sight ahead of me. Far down where the street ended at Santa Monica Boulevard, the taillights of that car flared briefly as it slowed and swung into Santa Monica. They were the big round red taillights, two on each side, of a T-Bird. It almost had to be Navarro. Whoever it was had sure been traveling fast.
I jammed down the accelerator again. Elaine didn't speak, but I saw her feet pressing the floorboards in that involuntary braking movement. I hit the brakes at the Santa Monica stop sign, slowed, swung right into the Boulevard. At the next stop I caught sight of him again. He was across La Cienega, heading down Santa Monica alongside the railroad tracks. And it was a beige Thunderbird. It was Joe.
There was a break in the traffic and I gunned the Cad across La Cienega after Navarro, relaxing a little. He wouldn't shake me now.
“Elaine,” I said, “why in hell can't you stay home and knit socks or something, like a sensible—”
“Don't swear at me.”
I turned and glared at her. “Right now I damn well feel—”
“Shell, don't—”
I roared at her, “Listen to me! Every time I open my yap you start babbling at me. It's gotten so I can't finish a sentence. Now just sit there for a change.” I took a deep breath and squirted it out my nostrils. “And another thing. I can't have you hanging on my neck the rest of the night.”
She looked shocked, but she shut up. She sat quietly for a while, but then she moved over closer to me and put one hand gently on my thigh. Finally she said, “I just ... wanted to stay with you ... no matter what.”
More calmly, I said, “Honey, let me fill you in on this. The guy ahead took a powder because be saw me in the club. Saw me and was shocked that I wasn't dead. He knew those guys were going to try to ventilate me in front of the Spartan, he thought they'd done the job, and he was very happy about the whole idea. So knowing I'm still alive, he'll be even more delighted when and if somebody can kill me. I don't know where we're going or what's going to happen, and I simply can't be worrying about you during the action.”
The Thunderbird was the second car ahead of me now, and it turned right, traveling at a normal rate of speed. I dropped back a little more, followed him up the street where he'd turned. Then I said to Elaine, “I wish to blazes you'd stop following me around—while this is going on, at least.” I paused. “What's with you? What's in it for you, anyway?”
When she answered, she sounded angry. “I just wanted to be with you, you—you ape.” She was angry. What did she have to be angry about? I was the one supposed to be angry.
She we
nt on, her usually soft voice edged, honed sharp on the corners, “It was just a stupid idea of mine.” She slapped her arms over her breasts, hugged them tight in a sudden, almost violent gesture. “I guess you think I go to bed with some man every night. Well, I don't. Not more than two or three times a week.”
She subsided into silence then. So did I. I watched Navarro's car ahead, and thought about what Elaine had said, and mentally threw my hands up into the air and clapped my head. I didn't have enough to worry about with guys swinging at me, trying to sap me, shoot me, drown me, and maybe even throw crocodiles on me before this was over. Now I had this piled on top of everything else. But, I guess, I had asked for it.
Finally I got out cigarettes, stuck one in my mouth and held the pack out to Elaine.
“Smoke?”
She took one silently. But, also silently, she pushed in the dash lighter, lit her cigarette, took mine from my lips and replaced it with the burning one, then held the lighter to her own.
On Fairfax Avenue, Navarro turned into the lot alongside a small nightclub called the showcase. I drove on past, turning my head to look back in time to see him pull into a parking space. I went on to the corner, swung around it and parked at the curb.
Then I turned to Elaine. “Honey, I'm sorry if I yelled at you, or barked. But I can't afford to—to divide my attention at a time like this.”
“I know. It's all right. I just...” She let it drop.
“And right now the guy I'm after went into the showcase. So I'm going to go in there, too.”
“Shell, let me go with you. Please?”
“Why? Wait here and—”
“That's just the point.” She winced. “I interrupted again, didn't I? But I know if I let you talk you'll think of a hundred reasons why I shouldn't. And I couldn't just wait here, alone. Not knowing what was happening. If I were with you, at least I'd know. I'm not afraid, if that worries you. And maybe I could even help some way. You can't tell. And I don't want you to go in there without me. I might just wait, and wait, and wait, and go crazy waiting. Please, let me go with you.”
Over Her Dear Body Page 9
