Find This Woman

by Richard S. Prather

  She was wearing a dark blue evening gown that clung to her white skin. That black hair was loose down her back and she was smiling as she moved over the polished floor. This was no fire dance, but I had an idea it would be good because she was still the full-breasted and wide-hipped wanton I remembered from the Pelican. And remembered, too, from last night. I wanted to watch, but it seemed a good time for me to try that door while all the guests were staring at the shapely body gliding over the dance floor.

  I walked to the wall and turned the knob on the door, and it opened. I went on through and pulled the door shut behind me. I was in a short hallway much like the one I'd been in at the Pelican, except that at my left, behind the stage, a flight of stairs led up to what were probably dressing rooms above. I moved to my left, to a spot a few yards from the archway through which Lorraine would come when her act was finished, and waited in the dim light from overhead bulbs.

  The music ended and there was a loud burst of applause that hurt my head, then Lorraine came through the archway, turned around with her back to me, and waited. She had on a lot more clothing than she used in her fire dance, but the whole outfit couldn't have weighed more than a few ounces, and for some reason that pleased me.

  I went "Psst!" at her, but apparently she didn't hear me. The applause kept up out front and she went back to bow again. I found myself wishing I were ringside so I could applaud and yell for more like the rest, and watch her bow.

  Then she was back.

  "Psst," I said. "Pssssst!"

  She turned around just as she started up the flight of steps to the dressing rooms and she looked straight at me. I'd forgotten temporarily about the way I must look, serape and teeth and eyes and all the rest, but Lorraine got it all at once as I caught her eye. The way I looked I must not only have caught her eye, but practically yanked it out.

  Her eyes lit up like light bulbs and I thought she was going to scream. There is a certain slang expression meaning "look at" in a certain startled manner. It is "eyeball," and there is no word that better describes what Lorraine did to me. She eyeballed me till I thought her eyeballs were going to go spoc and jump clear across ten feet at me. I thought they were going to fly across space like bumblebees and smack me in the kisser.

  She looked horrified, startled, incredulous, and nauseated, not by turns but all at once. She sucked in her breath with a little squeaking sound and stood staring at me. She was paralyzed and squeaking, and I suddenly realized what was the matter.

  I pawed at my face and got my ghoulish eyes and teeth off and said cleverly, "Lorraine. It's me!"

  She stopped making noises but her mouth dropped open.

  I pushed my sombrero back on my head and said, "It's only me. I won't hurt you. C'mere."

  Some of the expressions faded from her face till all that was left was a kind of pained horror. "You!" she said.

  People were still applauding like mad out front, but they were missing the best part of the show. The best part of the show is always backstage, anyway. And I had an idea they could applaud till their hands were pulpy and Lorraine wouldn't take another call. I don't think she could have made it. She was leaning against the wall with one hand on her breast and her mouth still open and sucking in air. She looked too weak to climb the stairs and, looking at her skimpy costume, I decided I'd carry her.

  She stared at me, recognizable now, and she said, "Well, yippee-ti-yo. Are you cracking up, Dad? What happened?"

  "Couldn't just walk in. Told you last night. Got to talk to you."

  "For all I knew, you were dead. Are you? You look like something fresh from an old grave."

  "Look. Can't stand here. Got to talk to you."

  She sighed hugely, blew air out of her mouth, puffing her cheeks, and said, "Come on. I want to get a good look at you."

  She turned and went up the stairs with me right behind her. When she took that good look she wanted at me, we'd be even. At the top of the steps we went into the first dressing room and she shut the door, locked it, and leaned back against it.

  She looked at me some more, shaking her head. "Don't you ever do anything like that to me again," she said. She put a hand over her heart and seemed surprised to find that all she had on was a gauzy bra and an abbreviated pair of shorts. I wasn't surprised; I'd known it all the time.

  "I need a drink," I said.

  "You need a drink." She grabbed a dressing gown off a hook and squeezed into it. "I need half a dozen after that. I thought you were something that had come to get me. What are you doing here, anyway?"

  I grinned at her, "Why, Lorraine. It's such a nice night that I thought—"

  "Now, wait a minute," she said quickly, but smiling. "You didn't creep back here in that getup just to ask me out in the balmy night air again. Not after the ruckus you had with Dante here last night. Now, what do you want?"

  I said, "Last night, downstairs before I started the ball rolling, you said you'd like to help me. You mean it?"

  "I guess so. I still don't know what you were talking about. But look, we can't stay here. How about my room?"

  "You through with the show?"

  "Yes. And we can't get a drink up here. I think I'll die if I don't get a drink." She peered at me. "You know, I had you set as a big, rough-looking guy. Not a bad-looking guy at all. A guy I could kind of go for, all things considered." She shook her head. "But I don't think you'll ever look quite the same to me again. I'll always see you plucking out your eyes."

  "I promise not to do it again. And your room's fine, but I'll have to get through the crowd without being recognized."

  "We can make it, all right," she said. "You can wear your. . . Ugh. Just don't look at me."

  She stepped to a folding screen, did highly interesting things behind it, then stepped out fully dressed in a white blouse and brown skirt, and with spike-heeled shoes on her nylon-stockinged feet. She said, "We won't have to go through the crowd below. Come on."

  I followed her out of the dressing room, down the hall to another door, then through it onto the second floor of the hotel and down the long corridor lined with rooms. She led me to 232 and unlocked the door, and we went inside.

  She went straight to the phone and called room service for bourbon, ice, and ginger ale. Then she turned to me and smiled. "Well. . . " she said.

  "Yeah," I said. "Well, uh. . . " It was fairly obvious that we were both remembering the same thing. We'd been pretty sad-looking people the last time we'd seen each other.

  She said, "Well, what did you want to talk about?"

  I'd gone to a lot of trouble to ask Lorraine some questions; it was time I started. I grinned at her. "Before—before we left the Inferno last night, I asked you some questions and you said you didn't know what I was talking about, remember?" She nodded, and I added, "I, uh, sort of forgot to bring the subject up again."

  Her smile got wider, then it faded and she said, "I do remember. But you never did really explain what you meant. About your car, and that fellow getting killed."

  She sprawled on the bed and I pulled a chair over near her and told her the whole thing. I made it short and fast, but got enough of it in so it would make sense to her if she didn't already know all of it. I made it pretty strong about Dante's wanting to kill me, and the part she might have played in causing Freddy's death, and also told her about Carter.

  When I finished she sat quietly for a few moments, biting that sensually curved lower lip. Then she turned her blue eyes on me. "I didn't realize. . . " she said softly. "I honestly didn't. But if I could have had anything to do with that Freddy's getting killed—" She stopped, then went on, "I did tell Dante about seeing you in the limousine. It could have happened exactly the way you said."

  There was a knock on the door and I was on my feet with my gun in my hand before whoever it was finished knocking.

  Lorraine stared at the gun for a moment, then looked at me. "I guess you're not kidding," she said quietly.

  "Baby, get it through your head once and f
or all. This is nothing to kid about."

  She nodded and went to the door. I stood aside, but it was only the bellhop with the liquor. Lorraine took care of him, then locked the door and carried the bottles to the dresser. She mixed two drinks, putting a splash of water in mine when I told her that was how I liked it, then gave me my drink and took a long swallow at hers.

  Then she said, looking at me, "I'm sorry. I'm awfully sorry, Shell. What do you want to know?"

  "First, why wouldn't you talk to me at the Pelican?"

  "Dante. Victor Dante." She went over to the bed and curled up on it again. I swallowed part of my drink and I could tell that I'd already had plenty because it was turning to steam in my stomach. Lorraine sure looked terrific on that bed. She went on, "He came down just a little while before you showed up that night." She stopped, sighed, then said, "It was sure nice while it lasted." She waved a hand in an all-inclusive gesture. "Star billing here. Free room. Everything on the house like I worked for RFC. It's all for exactly what I'm not doing now: keeping my mouth shut."

  "Dante set this up for you? To keep you quiet?" She nodded and I said, "Look, start at the beginning, with Isabel or Carter, and bring it right on up so I can get the picture as it happened." I could feel that bourbon taking hold and I wanted to hear whatever she had to say before it just didn't matter to me. Lorraine sure looked good on that bed. And, as I remembered, she was good.

  Then she said something that sobered me a little. "I told you the truth before, Shell. I don't know this Isabel."

  "You know Mrs. Dante?"

  "Yes."

  "Who is she?"

  "Before they got married she was Crystal Claire."

  "And who the hell is Crystal Claire?"

  "Girl I worked with at the Pelican—my best friend there. We got along swell. She's the girl I talked to that detective, Carter, about."

  I sighed and got up, finished my drink, and walked to the dresser. "Lorraine, do you mind if I mix another?"

  She leaned forward and held her glass toward me. She smiled. "Fix two." I fixed them and took one to her.

  "Sit here," she said. She patted the bed beside her. "You sure look awful. Take off your serape."

  I took it off and sat down beside her as she scooted over to give me room. I said, "O.K., give it to me."

  She grinned a lot and wiggled a little. I said, "What about this Crystal? What about everything?"

  She kept smiling at first, but she started in. "I was in the show at the Pelican"—she paused and grinned at me—"and Crystal was a cigarette girl. Cute, too."

  "I know. That's Dante's wife? Little blonde gal?"

  "Uh-huh. She wasn't Dante's wife then, but he was hot for her. Hung around her a lot when he came down. He owns the Pelican, or most of it, and he came around regularly on the first and fifteenth of each month. Anyway, Crystal worked there a couple of months or so, and then one day she didn't show up."

  "When was that, Lorraine? What day?"

  She frowned. "Right at the first of the year. Second or third of January, I think. I don't remember exactly."

  "O.K., go on."

  "Well, there's nothing to tell until this detective showed up and asked me about some Isabel. I didn't know any Isabel—just like I told you, Shell—but he showed me a picture of her and it sure looked like Crystal."

  That slowed me down for a minute. "Was it Crystal?"

  "I'm not sure, but it was enough like her so that I mentioned it to Mr. Carter. He thanked me, asked a few questions about Crystal, and left."

  "Who else at the Pelican knew Dante was—well, hot for Crystal?"

  "Well," she said, frowning again, "probably nobody but me. They didn't bite each other in the club. And I might not have known except that Crystal and I got along so good and she told me. Probably I was the only one."

  "Something else. Did you tell Carter about Dante's interest in this Crystal, and that Dante was from Vegas?"

  "Yes, I did. Nobody told me not to. Why shouldn't I?"

  And maybe that explained how Carter had wound up in Las Vegas. But it didn't explain why he'd wound up dead, I said, "O.K., what then?"

  "Nothing till the night you showed up, Shell."

  "Uh-huh. And when I busted in, Dante was in your dressing room. What was that all about?"

  "Well, he was smooth, but he said he wanted me to star at the Inferno, and he also wanted to give me a thousand dollars. There was one little catch. I had to forget I'd ever seen that detective or heard of Crystal Claire. He said I'd have to keep my goddamned mouth shut." She giggled slightly. "That's what he said, my goddamned mouth." She paused, blinking her eyes. She spent ten seconds blinking and thinking and said, "Wanted me to go with him right away then, he did. In his car."

  "Uh-huh. Think I saw the car. For a second. Why didn't you go back with him?"

  "Thousand dollars? I should go? I had to get some clothes if I was coming up here. Didn't I?"

  "Yes. You sure did." I guess she did, so she could make a good first impression. Only, as I remembered, with Lorraine it wasn't really the first impression that counted.

  "So I did," she said. "And so I took the plane in the afternoon. Shell, fix me a drink."

  "You got another show to do?"

  "No more show. Only two shows, just did the last one." I fixed two more drinks.

  She went on, "Golly, Shell, you can see how wonderful that sounded to me. I didn't know of anything wrong, and star billing at the Inferno in Las Vegas. . . " She let it trail off and was quiet for a moment. "Guess that's over."

  I said, "Lorraine, honey. Hate to say this, but there's a chance that's not all that's over if Dante finds out you've talked to me. There's been one murder already, besides Freddy." I thought about that a minute and added, "At least one murder."

  Her face got sober and she pulled at her drink. The way she pulled at it, her face wasn't going to stay sober. Then she smiled at me and we sat on the bed and drank our highballs. It was getting a little wobbly in the room. Things were sort of rubbery and they didn't exactly stay put the way things should. We had another little drink and chatted gaily for a while. The bourbon crept up on us. I didn't learn a hell of a lot more. I liked Lorraine's long black hair better loose the way it was now than in a bun, I decided. And I liked that full lower lip, and the pouting mouth and impudent eyes and the nose that was too small for her face.

  Finally I said, "Dante came down first and fifteenth?"

  "Sure."

  "Wasn't fifteenth two nights ago?"

  "Wasn't? No, wasn't. First time I ever know him to come any time other than first an' fifteenth."

  "Good."

  "Bully," she said. She looked at me. "Who'n hell you think you are? Fancy pants?"

  "Disguise. I'm a private ojo."

  "Oho!" she said. "What's oho?"

  "Spanish for eye. I'm a private eye. Like in eyeball."

  She shuddered. "Ugh," she said. "Don't ever say that word again. Shell. Hey, Shell."

  "Yeah?"

  "'Nother drink?"

  "Sure. Sure." I made it over to the dresser, mixed the drinks, and came back to the beds. She sure looked good on those beds.

  She said, "Toast. Toast somebody."

  "Toast Eisenhower. Good ol' boy, he."

  "Good. Bully for Eisenheimer."

  "Howmer. Eisenhowmer, stupid."

  We toasted Owmenheiser.

  She got up, poured more drinks, and came back. "Li'l toast," she said. She looked toward me. "Toast Bernard Brooch," she said.

  We drank the toast.

  She fixed two more. She handed me a glass and we clinked the glasses together.

  "Toas'," she said. "Bully ol' toas'. Toas' Truman. Give ol' Harry a toas'."

  "Lorraine!" I said. "You're getting drunk!"

  There was a moment of silence. She blinked at me.

  "Guess I am," she said. "You're drunk, too. Bet you're always drunk. Shell's jus' an ol' drunk drunk."

  "That's unkind, Lorraine. Not nice. Just beca
use I'm a little tiny bit woozy. No, sir, ma'am. You're striking below the belt."

  She leaned close to me. "Shell," she whispered slowly, "don' you remember? I'm striking all over."

  "Shh," I said. "Never did tell you how much I enjoyed your dance at Pelican. Tell you now. Really 'joyed it."

  She smiled happily. "Thank you, thank you. I'll dance for you, jus' for you. You wanna dance with me?"

  "Wanna dance with you? Do I wanna dance with you? Just you ask me."

  She was up off the bed now, moving around the room, moving every which way and humming and singing trala-la and bum-diddy-bum, and if she'd looked carefully at me right then she might have thought I still had on my fake eyeballs. I rose and walked to her and grabbed her.

  "This kills me," I said. "I'm getting old."

  "Not old. Nice."

  "Old. Old, old man. I can feel my arteries hardening. I creak when I walk. C'mere."

  "No, no, no," she said. "You wait. Gonna dance."

  I waited, and I'm glad I waited. She backed across the room and it was just as it had been on that first night when I'd seen her dance at the Pelican: I forgot about everything except the wild, wild woman. She moved easily and gracefully at first, smiling all the time and humming her own music as she fumbled with the blouse and pulled it from her smooth shoulders. Then she reached behind her to unfasten her brassiere, shrugged it from her arms, and dropped it to the floor, looking squarely at me and chuckling softly. I could feel my face getting hot. This was another fire dance, a private one, and I felt as if I were the fuel. Lorraine stood with her hands on her hips, her shoulders thrown back and her heavy breasts thrusting forward, pink-tipped and erect and swaying slightly as she paused for only a moment and then stepped toward me. It was surprising how much better they looked without any gold dust.