My office over the gas station wasn't air conditioned. When I opened the door it was like walking into a pizza oven. But it didn't smell as good. I left the door open and went over and turned on the oscillating fan I'd brought from L.A. when I closed my office in the Cahuenga building. The hot air moved the sweat around on my face, as I sat at my desk and looked at the checkbook. Not much for committing a felony punishable by one to five in Soledad.
The checkbook was Valentine's, not joint, just Lester A. Valentine and the address imprinted on the checks. He showed a current balance of $7,754.66. I went through the ledger part of the book. It dated back to the previous November 8. There were entries for photographic equipment, for some men's clothing, quite a number for cash, dues at the Racquet Club, a monthly bill from Melvin's at the Poodle Springs Hotel and Resort Center, and a parking ticket made out to Parking Clerk, City of Los Angeles, and the ticket number. It was the only thing in the checkbook that didn't connect him to Poodle Springs. I decided it was a clue. I copied down the check number and the ticket number and put the checkbook in my desk and locked the drawer and got out the bottle of Scotch that I kept in my desk in case I was bitten by a Gila monster. I poured myself a small snort and sipped it and thought about why a guy would go off and leave behind him a checkbook carrying a balance of more than $7,500.
I finished my drink and poured another one. There were no Gila monsters in sight, but you never knew.
11
We had our first open house of the winter season, or Linda did. I tried to stay out of the way. And failed. At 5:30 when the first guests arrived I was there wearing a white jacket that Linda loved and I didn't. As people came in Linda acted as if they were more welcome than a cool shower in August. I knew for a fact she despised at least one in three. My average was higher and it grew as the night wore on.
There were probably two hundred people. Tino tended bar, beautiful in a tuxedo that fit him the way clothes only fit Asian houseboys. The caterer's people moved balletically among the throngs, bearing silver trays of champagne and edible doodads. I leaned on the bar, nursing a Scotch.
"So you're the new hubby," a woman said to me.
"I prefer 'current heartthrob'" I said.
"Of course you do," the woman said. "My name's Mousy Fairchild. Linda and I have known each other for nearly ever, for a couple of very young women."
The thing I noticed first about her was that she smelled of rain-washed flowers, and the second that her pale violet silk gown clung to her like the skin clings to a grape. Her hair was blonder than God had ever intended, and her skin was darkly and evenly tanned which made her perfect teeth seem even whiter when she smiled. Her lips were touched with the same color as her dress and the lower lip was quite full and looked as if it was designed to be nibbled on.
"Would you like something besides the fizzy grape juice?" I said.
"Oh, you are a dear. Yes, I'll have a vodka martini on the rocks with a twist," she said. "Shaken first."
I looked at Tino. He was already mixing the martini. Tino was a boy who wasted no time not listening.
"Be a dear," Mousy said, "make it a double."
Tino smiled as if never had he enjoyed such a pleasure and added more vodka to the shaker.
"Do you have a cigarette?" she said.
I produced a pack and shook one loose.
"My God," she said. "A Camel? If I smoke that I may faint."
She took it and leaned toward me while I held a match for her. When it was lit she stayed leaning toward me and sucked in the smoke while she looked at me from her half-lowered eyes, while the smoke drifted between us.
"Beautiful," I said. "I've practiced that look for hours in my mirror and I can't seem to get it like that."
"Bastard," she said, and straightened up. "If I faint will you blow into my mouth?"
"No," I said. I treated myself to one of my cigarettes.
"Well," Mousy said, "you are different. Did you know Linda's first husband?"
"Yes."
"Boring man. Took himself so unutterably seriously. Do you take yourself seriously?"
"Thursdays," I said, "when I go for my pedicure."
Mousy smiled and took a significant guzzle of her martini. She reached out with her left hand and squeezed my arm.
"My," she said, "don't we have biceps."
I let that slide. All the answers I could think of sounded a little silly, including yes and no.
"Do detectives have fights, Mr. Marlowe?" she said.
"Sometimes," I said. "Usually we put the criminal in his place with a well-polished phrase."
"Are you carrying a gun?"
I shook my head. "I didn't know you'd be here," I said.
A leathery specimen with short grey hair came over and put a hand on her elbow. Her smile was all light and no heat as she turned toward him.
"Mr. Marlowe," she said, "this is my husband, Morton Fairchild."
Morton nodded at me without interest.
"Pleased," he said, and steered his wife away from the bar and toward the dance floor.
"I don't think that man liked me," I said to Tino.
"It is not that, Mr. Marlowe," Tino said. "I do not think that he wishes his wife to be near both a man and a bar."
"You don't miss much, do you, Tino?"
"No, Mr. Marlowe, only those things I am supposed to miss."
Linda appeared with a guest.
"Darling," she said, "I'd love to have you meet Cord Havoc. Cord, this is my husband, Philip Marlowe."
"By God, Marlowe, I'm glad to meet you," Havoc said. He put out a big square hand. I shook it firmly. I knew who he was all right. I'd seen him in three or four bad movies. He was a dreamboat, six feet tall, even features, a strong jaw, pale blue eyes set wide apart. His teeth were perfectly even. His clothes fit him the way Tino's tux fitted him.
"I'm damned glad, Marlowe, that this little girl has finally found the right guy. Broke my heart and a lot of others when she did, but damn it's good to see her happy."
I smiled at him becomingly. While I was smiling he held his glass out toward Tino without even looking at him and Tino filled it with bourbon. Havoc took a good third of it at a swallow.
"Cord's new picture will be opening next week," Linda said.
"Gangster show," Havoc said, and took in another third of his drink. "Probably seem pretty tame to you, Marlowe."
"Sure would," I said. "Normally this time of the afternoon I strangle an alligator."
Havoc put his head back and laughed loudly. Then he finished his drink.
"Atta boy, Phil." He held his now empty glass out and Tino hit it again. "You can thank me, boy. All the time before she met you I was looking out for her." He laughed again, with the tossing head movement that he'd used before.
"Cord, you know you weren't looking out for me," Linda said. "You were attempting to get me into bed."
Cord's muzzle was in his drink. He took it out and gave me a little elbow and said, "Can you blame me, Phil?"
As he spoke his eyes swept the room. He was not a boy who wanted to miss a chance. Before I had a chance to say whether I blamed him, he spotted someone.
"Hey, Manny," he shouted and burst off across the dining room toward a weasly-looking little bald guy with a deep tan and an open shirt, with the collar carefully out over the lapels of his cream and plaid camel jacket.
"Must have been hard," I said to Linda, "not to tumble in the hay with him."
"Mostly," Linda said, "when he tumbles into the hay, he passes out."
She leaned over and kissed me lightly on the lips.
"Right out in public?" I said.
"I want everyone to know who belongs to whom, here," she said.
"Mostly it matters that you and I know," I said.
She smiled and patted my cheek. "We do, darling, don't we."
I nodded and she swept off to greet a new guest as if they had risen from the dead. Mousy Fairchild seemed to have shaken off her husband for a moment and
swept past me with a tall dark guy in a good suit. She stopped, ordered another martini from Tino and said, "Meet the lucky man," to the dark guy in the good suit.
"Mr. Marlowe," she said to me, "this is Mr. Steele."
Steele put out his hand. His eyes were steady and blank, his face was healthy looking and smooth. He was a man who looked like he could move quickly and you better move quickly too. We shook hands. Mousy's husband trudged over and retrieved her.
I said, "Used to be a guy named Steele, Arnie Steele, ran the rackets in San Berdoo and Riverside."
"Is that so?" Steele said. "Understand you're a private cop."
"When I'm not passing canapes," I said, "and cleaning up after bridge parties."
"Nice little deal," Steele said, "marrying into all that dough."
"Peachy," I said. "I heard this Steele guy got out of the rackets, maybe four, five years ago. Bought himself a place in the desert."
"Knew when to get out, huh?" Steele said.
"Uh huh," I said.
The weasly little bald guy with the deep tan and the open shirt came over to Steele.
"Arnie," he said, "excuse me, but I'd like you to meet somebody. Cord Havoc, the movie star, biggest thing in the country this year. We're thinking of putting something together you might be interested in."
Steele nodded without expression as the weasel edged him away from me with his shoulder. As he left Steele glanced at me over the weasel's head.
"Stay loose, Shoo-Fly," he said.
I nodded. Tino stepped over and refreshed my drink with a lovely little economical flourish. When I turned back from the bar I was nose to nose and elsewhere with a piece of blonde business in a frantic decolletage who was drunker than two billy goats. Her eyes were very large and very blue.
"Are you in pictures, Mr. Marlowe?"
"I couldn't make it," I said. "They went for the horse instead."
"Somebody said you was in pictursh," she said. The s's were all slushy. She leaned against me and the push-'em-up underwire bra jammed into my rib cage.
"I'm in pictures," she said.
"I knew you were," I said.
"I'm an actress." The s's were increasingly difficult for her. "I'm in a lot of pirate things. I play a wench. You know? I wear low dresses and bend over in front of the camera a lot. Director says to me do your dip, now, Cherry. Like everybody knows about me."
"Now I do too," I said. She was not leaning into me out of passion, she was leaning for support.
"Did you come with someone?" I said.
"Sure, Mr. Steele brought me. I'd never come to some swell's house like this, unless Mr. Steele or somebody brought me."
"Aw, I bet you get to go everywhere," I said.
She smiled at me and hiccupped and began to slide to the floor. I got her under the arms and dragged her back upright, got my left arm around her back and my right under her knees and hoisted her up in my arms just as all strength left her and she went limp.
Tino came around the bar.
"Sir?"
"Tell Mr. Steele I'd like to see him, Tino." Tino nodded and glided across the room, moving through the crowd without any apparent effort, bumping into no one. I saw him speak to Steele, who turned and glanced at me. His face didn't change but he nodded once, looked at the front door and jerked his head toward me.
A languid blond man with longish hair reassembled himself away from the wall where he'd been leaning and came over to me. "I'll take her," he said.
"She's dead weight," I said. "Can you handle her?" He grinned and put out his arms. I transferred her and he ambled away, out the front door and into the darkness. In maybe two minutes he was back.
"In the car," he said, "back seat, on her side. Lay her on her back and she snores."
"Thanks," I said. He nodded and went back to his post by the front door. Steele never glanced at him or me again.
"The lady is all right, Mr. Marlowe?"
"Sleeping it off in the car, Tino."
"The lady may be more fortunate than you, sir."
"Think of the excitement she's missing," I said.
"Yes, sir," Tino said.
12
I was on the road early, before the heat got hard, heading west to Los Angeles. Marlowe the commuting gumshoe. Works in L.A., lives in Poodle Springs. Spends 20 hours a day on the road.
The desert was empty this early, except for tumbleweed, cactus and an occasional hawk riding the wind currents with an eye out for breakfast. I passed a place that sold date shakes. Hard to imagine a date shake. My only company into L.A. were the big ten wheelers that passed you with a rush of air on the downgrades and blocked you on the upgrades as they downshifted.
The sky was high and bright when I got to L.A. I got off the freeway at Spring Street and parked. Inside City Hall near the City Clerk's Office was a small room under the big central stairway. On the grimy pebbled glass door, lettered in black, was OFFICE OF THE PARKING CLERK. I went in. Across the front of the room was a long counter, behind a railing were three elderly female clerks, to the right behind a railing were three small hearing cubicles. There was a line for each. I got in line for the counter. The line shuffled slowly forward, old people in worn clothing paying parking fines with postal money orders, sharp guys in flashy suits paying in cash and trying to look like this was just a minor annoyance, interrupting a day of important conferences. The clerk running my line was very fat, so that her head seemed to rest on her shoulders and her chins merged with her breastbone. Her hair was white with a pronounced blue tone, and she wheezed a little as she processed the tickets, very slowly.
When I reached her she said, "Present the ticket, cash? check? or money order?"
I smiled at her like a man about to propose marriage.
"Perhaps you can help me," I said.
She didn't look up. "Not unless you present your ticket."
I slid a piece of paper over the counter to her. I had written the number of Les Valentine's L.A. parking ticket on it.
"I wonder if you could tell me where that violation occurred," I said.
"You got a complaint, or wish to contest, step behind that railing and wait for the hearing officer."
"I have no complaint," I said. "I'm trying to locate the address where this ticket was issued. I'm trying to locate a missing person."
In the line behind me people were beginning to mutter.
The woman looked up at me. She had small eyes and a little hooked nose like a chicken.
"You want to pay a ticket or not," she said. "There's people waiting."
"That's it," I said, "two choices?"
"You trying to be smart with me, Buster?" she said.
"Hell, no," I said. "Be a waste of time."
I turned and pushed through the crowd and out the door. In an angle near the front door was a bank of pay phones. I got one, put in my coin and called the office of the parking clerk. An elderly female voice answered.
"Yeah," I said. "This is Marlowe, Sheriff's Sub Station in Encino. I need a location on a parking ticket."
"We're busy," the elderly female voice said. "Put it through on a requisition form."
"Listen, Sis," I snarled, "you think you're talking to some biscuit kicker from Fresno? This is police business, so get off your widest part and get me an address."
There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end and then the voice said, "What's the number on the violation?"
I read her the ticket number and said, "Hubba hubba, Sis. I don't have all day."
The line was silent for a few minutes and then she was back on, very distant. "The violation occurred in front of 1254 Western Avenue," she said. "And I must say I don't appreciate your manner."
I said, "Whyn't you go kiss a walrus, Sis," and hung up.
1254 Western Avenue was on the west side of the block between Hollywood and Sunset boulevards, next to a taco stand. It was a three-story building of the kind they built out there right after the war, before they knew that Hollywood would turn
into a sleaze bucket and they thought they were at the avant edge of modern architecture. It was square and full of glass that needed to be washed. The facing was some kind of brushed aluminum in big squares, so that the place looked like an ugly bread box fallen on hard times. On the first floor, behind a plate-glass window, was an office that sold real estate and insurance. An old guy who looked like he might be brother to the lady at the parking clerk's office was sitting in his shirtsleeves bent over an old-fashioned ledger. A redhead who would look like the parking clerk's sister in maybe ten years was sitting at her desk doing her nails.
The entry hall was to the left of the real estate office and a stairway led up along the left wall. There was no elevator. On the wall beside the door to the real estate office was a directory, one of those black felt numbers with slots where white letters were inserted. The glass that covered it was flyspecked and stained with years of smog. There was no Les Valentine listed. Of the ten tenants on three floors, there was one photographer.
Larry Victor, it said, Photoportraits. Same initials, I thought. Why not?
I went up two flights. The building smelled as if cats lived in the stairwells. Larry Victor was on the third floor, at the back. There was some light showing through the pebbled glass on his door. It had the white look of daylight, as if there were a window opposite, or a skylight. The lettering said Larry Victor, Photographer, Advertising, Industrial. Portraits a Specialty. I knocked; no answer. I tried the knob; locked. I didn't have my collection of passkeys, but I did carry in my inside pocket a tool I'd taken from a safe and loft guy once. It looked something like one of those dental tools that technicians use to scrape your teeth. Only the needle nose was longer. I edged the nose inside the jamb overlap and turned it so that it put pressure on the lock tongue. It was a spring type and popped right back. I was in. I closed the door behind me and looked around.
The place looked like the kind of office I'd spent half my life in. An old rolltop desk, a wobbly swivel chair with a worn pillow on the seat, an oak filing cabinet, and against one wall a big sheet of white paper taped up, and a couple of still cameras on tripods and some photographer's lamps grouped in front of it. I looked at the cameras. There was a Rolleiflex on one tripod and a Canon 35 mm on the other. The daylight poured in through a dirty skylight webbed with chicken wire. There was a phone on the desk and an onyx pen and pencil set.
Poodle Springs (philip marlowe) Page 5
