“Where are you?” Mad Crow asked abruptly.
“I’m at the Anchor mission on Main, downtown.”
“Where you been? Dex called me almost an hour ago, said you weren’t at home.”
“What did he want?”
“I’ll tell you. Listen, you’re on the way to where we need to go. Be waiting out front, and I’ll pick you up.”
A little over a half-hour later, Mad Crow pulled up in the white Caddy, its top down and white finish gleaming. “I was afraid you’d come to this sad end,” he said, looking around at the silent forms huddled on the litter-strewn sidewalk. “Once an idol of the silver screen, now just a castaway, a piece of driftwood on the beach of life.” Pointing across the street, he asked, “Who’s the dollie in the bananas?”
“Will you just drive the goddam car and tell me where we’re going?”
The convertible left a patch of rubber on the pavement. Mad Crow headed north to First Street and swung left. “Dex turned up something on Lewis De Loach, and it didn’t take him long,” he said, raising his voice to be heard as the air rushed over the windshield. “He won’t name the tattletale, only that it’s somebody who used to work in management at MagArts and left in a huff. A junior producer would be my guess. Apparently this individual is happy to spread a little dirt over his former employer. Anyway, it turns out De Loach got himself in a mess over a lady. A very particular kind of lady. And we….” His voice rose dramatically, a radio announcer’s voice. “We got her name and—yes, indeedy—her address.”
For the next ten minutes, Horn listened intently to what Diggs had uncovered. Then it was his turn to describe his evening with Madge. When Mad Crow parked the Caddy, they were on a quiet residential street in Hollywood. “That’s the place,” Mad Crow said, pointing to a well-kept bungalow fronted by an orderly lawn. “Let’s go say hello to Miss Myra Poole.”
They mounted a short flight of steps to the front porch, where Mad Crow rang the bell. A woman in her forties opened the door, dressed in an elegant-looking silk house coat with lace at the edges. She had until recently been beautiful, Horn thought, and she was still worth a second look. She smiled without speaking, her face betraying no curiosity.
“Afternoon, ma’am,” said Mad Crow. “Edna, isn’t it? I’m Roy. I called earlier. This is my friend Gene. We’d like to spend some time with Myra.”
She smiled noncommittally. “I’m afraid Myra doesn’t do twosomes,” she said.
“Oh, no, that’s all right,” Mad Crow said. “My friend was wounded in the war. He just likes to watch.”
She smiled again. “Of course,” she said. “Then that will be twenty for one of you. Myra’s busy at the moment. Please come in.”
They sat in a parlor decorated with plush furniture and ersatz Victorian lighting fixtures, heavy on nudes. A pretty young girl sat in a corner reading a magazine, legs crossed and garters showing, and a bull-necked, well-fed young man in shirtsleeves and suspenders sat nearby, lips moving as he worked a crossword puzzle.
After about ten minutes, a door closed somewhere at the side of the house, and they saw a man adjusting his hat as he moved down the sidewalk toward the street.
“Separate exit for customers,” Mad Crow said. “Damn, I like a well-run operation.”
A few more minutes passed, and then Myra came out. She was in her late twenties, average height and dark-haired, and she wore the house uniform of peignoir over nylons, high heels, and frilly lingerie. Like the madam, she may have been beautiful once, but in her case it had faded much more quickly, to be replaced by something furtive and flinty.
“Hi, boys,” she said. “Come on back.” She led them to a small bedroom at the rear of the one-story house. Inside, she began to shrug off the dressing gown. “Which one of you—?”
“You can keep that on, Myra,” Horn said. “All we want is to talk.”
“Are you cops?” she asked. “You’re not the regular ones.”
“No,” he said.
“You from some church? You want to save my soul? I’ve got no time—”
“That’s not it, either.”
“Edna said you didn’t look quite right, and she told Howie to sit outside the door. He used to play football. All I have to do is yell for him.”
“You won’t have to do that, Myra,” Horn said. “We’ve got money, and we’ll pay for your time. Then we’ll leave.”
She thought about that, twirling the sash of her gown around one finger. “All right,” she said finally, sitting on the bed. “What about?”
“Lewis De Loach,” Horn said as he and Mad Crow sat in the two chairs facing her.
“Oh, no,” she said, her posture growing rigid. “No.”
“We already know all about it,” Horn said. “Let me explain something. We’re private detectives, hired by De Loach’s ex-wife, Dolores Winter. You may have heard of her. We know what De Loach did to you and how it was hushed up by the studio. Now Miss Winter has found out, and she’s afraid the whole story may come out and damage her reputation. You know how these actresses are, always worried about publicity.
“So she hired us to make sure nothing comes out. And, when we started investigating, we found out that you got cheated out of money that was coming to you.”
“What do you mean?” She still fiddled with her sash, but he detected a flicker of interest in her expression.
“You got—let’s see, what was the exact amount? I’ve got it written down here somewhere,” he said, patting his pockets.
“Two thousand,” she said. “One for me, one for the house.”
“That’s right. Well, we found out that the studio okayed a payment of four thousand. Apparently half of that never reached you, and we have reason to believe that it wound up in the pocket of Mister De Loach.”
Her eyes widened. “The prick,” she said.
“Exactly,” Horn said, adopting a look of concern. “Naturally, Miss Winter wants to make sure you never have any reason to embarrass her. We intend to put pressure on the studio to pay you the additional two thousand. All we need is just to, you know, confirm the events that occurred.” Horn glanced at Mad Crow and saw the beginning of a furtive grin.
“I suppose,” she said. “But…double my fee?”
Horn looked at Mad Crow, who frowned and checked the contents of his wallet. “All right,” the Indian said.
“Okay, then.” She reached for a stick of Teaberry chewing gum on the bedside table, unwrapped it, and began working on it.
“This was, I don’t know, a couple of years ago,” she said, crossing her legs and swinging one foot slowly up and down. “He came here one night and asked for a girl. Nobody knew him, and he gave some dumb name. John, or something like that.” She laughed. “Dick. Anyway, he looked nice and was well-dressed, and he saw me up front and picked me out. We came back here, and I could tell he was real drunk, but I can usually handle drunks. So we did it. And he paid, and even tipped me.
“And then he said he wanted to do it again, but I would have to help him. I said sure, if he paid again. He said he would. And he reached in his pocket and got out this little rope, except it was very soft. And he said he wanted to put it around my neck. He said it would make the fucking go better for me. But I could tell he really meant better for him.”
The two men looked at each other.
“I know,” she said, chewing vigorously. “Sounds crazy, right? I’d never tried it, but I’d heard of it. Some people like to do it that way. I just didn’t want to get any marks, you know? Like I said, he was very drunk, but he was well-behaved, and he kept saying he liked me and wouldn’t hurt me. So I said okay.
“Stupid,” she said, shaking her head. “Very, very stupid. As soon as he started, I could tell it was too tight around my neck. I tried to tell him, but he was already on top of me and pulling it tighter, and I just couldn’t breathe. His face was getting very red too, and his eyes big. I tried hitting him and scratching him, but I could feel myself passing out. Last thing
I remember hearing him say was, I could kill you now.
“When I woke up, everybody was yelling and pulling at him. He was still on top of me, passed out drunk. They found his driver’s license and some other things in his wallet. Edna didn’t want the newspapers to get hold of it, so she called the studio herself, and they sent somebody to get him.”
“And they quietly paid up,” Horn said.
She nodded. “I heard later that the sick son of a bitch lost his job. I said hurray. You know I had bruises for weeks?”
Horn and Mad Crow exchanged nods and stood up. Mad Crow produced the money, and they both thanked her.
Outside the door, the stocky young man lounged in a straight-backed chair against the wall, the crossword puzzle replaced by a policeman’s nightstick in his lap. “Howie,” Mad Crow said pleasantly as they passed him.
They had almost reached the exit when they heard the madam in the rear of the house, her voice raised in fury, followed by a ringing slap and a loud sob from Myra.
“Better get out of here,” Horn said. They made their way up the walk toward the Cadillac as they heard the madam scream, “Howie!”
The young man came barreling out the front door and down the steps. Ignoring the door, Mad Crow vaulted into the driver’s seat and began stabbing his key at the ignition. Realizing that their pursuer was too close, Horn turned to face him.
Howie was a few inches shorter and much broader, all chest, shoulders, and belly. “Edna says you need to come back in,” he said with a pugnacious air, lightly tossing the billy club from hand to hand in a practiced motion.
“Not today, Howie.” Behind him, Horn heard the big engine roar to life. “Get in!” Mad Crow yelled.
“If he goes, I take you inside,” Howie said, catching the stick without looking at it. His upper lip was adorned with the wispy beginnings of a mustache.
Horn realized he had little choice. “You play football, Howie?” he asked. “If you did, I bet you weren’t first string. You were probably too dumb to memorize the play book, am I right?”
In the second it took for that to sink in, the young man’s face began to clench, and Horn threw a kick, catching the stick in mid-flight, the heavy heel of his shoe following through into Howie’s stomach. He felt the layer of fat and the heavy muscle underneath. Howie staggered back but did not fall. Stunned, he looked around for the nightstick. Horn flipped over the door into the passenger seat as Mad Crow gunned the engine and Howie lurched forward, club again in hand.
“Don’t hurt the car!” Mad Crow wailed. As the Caddy peeled out, Howie took a mighty swing at his only target, the right rear taillight. Even over the engine noise and the screech of rubber, the sound of shattered glass was unmistakable.
Eight blocks later, Mad Crow was still cursing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“You know where we can find this guy De Loach?” Mad Crow drove automatically, his mind clearly somewhere else.
“Hmm? Well, I know where he lives. It’s up in the hills. With Doll.”
“Point me there.”
“Why?”
“You know.”
“Now wait. Be patient for just a little—”
“Oh, that’s great. Be patient, ladies and gentleman. This coming to you from the man who threw away his job just so’s he could pound little Bernie Rome Junior into oatmeal mush. Let me tell you something: Sierra Lane was patient. You ain’t.”
“I want him as bad as you do,” Horn said. “His number’ll come up. In the meantime—” He looked down the street. “That place has a phone. Can you pull over?”
Mad Crow parked in front of a cafe on Las Palmas, a block south of Hollywood Boulevard, then got out to check the damage to his car. “The punk took off some of the paint job too,” he said mournfully. “I ought to go back there—”
“I’ll try to make this fast,” Horn said as he entered the cafe. Inside the phone booth, he dialed Luther Coby’s number. The detective’s partner, Stiles, answered. “Hold on while I try to radio him,” the detective said. “I think he wants to talk to you.”
A minute went by. “Give me your number, and he’ll call you back,” Stiles said. Horn rolled a smoke while he waited. Before long, the phone rang, and he heard Coby’s familiar, disinterested voice.
“I need to tell you a bunch of things,” Horn said.
“I’m listening.”
Haltingly, he went over what he had found out since his last encounter with Coby. He mentioned the long talk with Alden Richwine in the house where Tess Shockley died, the revelation that Dolores Winter had been at the long-ago party, the tense and frustrating poolside meeting with Jay Lombard. Finally he went over what he had learned from Eden Lamont and, most recently, Myra Poole.
When Horn finished, Coby was silent for what seemed like a long time. All that came over the phone was the faint sound of a matchstick being nudged from one side of the man’s mouth to the other and back again.
“Where are you right now?” Coby asked.
“At a cafe on Las Palmas. Why?”
“Never mind. I was thinking of getting you to meet me halfway, but then I remembered I’m due in court in half an hour. But I want to see you tomorrow. All right?”
“I guess. What is this about?”
“It’s about all this detective work you’ve been doing,” Coby said. He sounded almost in good spirits. “I’ve got to say you’ve done all right for an amateur. Almost as good as some movie cowboy detective. But you’re on the wrong track.”
“What do you mean?”
“Let’s start with this Eden Lamont. She left town, right?”
“Uh, yeah. Yesterday morning.”
“What if I was to tell you she’s got herself a room at the Beverly Hills Hotel? Actually, one of those fancy bungalows. And that she checked in under a phony name and gets room service to bring all her meals?”
“I’d say it’s some kind of a mistake.”
“Huh-uh. It’s her, all right. I’m going over there tomorrow to surprise her, have a little chat. I’d like you to come along. With you there, maybe she’ll open up.”
“Why not go there now?”
“I told you, I got to be in court. Getting a little pushy, aren’t you? I’ll tell you how we handle this, all right?”
“At least tell me what she’s doing there. And how did you find her, anyway?”
“Some of your questions are going to have to wait. But as to what she’s doing there, it’s pretty simple. You’ve been led skipping down the garden path.” Coby now sounded absolutely jovial. “She had a job to do for Jay Lombard. The lady’s an actress, remember? Her job was to get you thinking in a certain direction, and it worked.”
Horn cursed under his breath.
“Her story about Lewis De Loach was pure bullshit,” Coby went on, “just a shyster lawyer song and dance, and you fell for it. I’ve got to hand it to Lombard. He’s even slicker than I figured.”
“This is crazy,” Horn said, the anger tightening his voice. He felt like a fool, but he wasn’t ready to admit it.
“Don’t feel bad,” Coby said. “He’s outflanked better men than you. Made me look pretty stupid once, that time I told you about.”
Horn exhaled loudly, causing static over the phone. “So the reason for all this was—”
“Was just to give Lombard time to maneuver. He’s cleaning up the mess he made, and part of that involves getting rid of anybody who could eventually figure things out.”
“You’re saying he killed Rose? And Cassie?”
“I’m saying his thug Willie killed them. And I’m saying you could be next. In fact, you probably are. You need to be careful until I’m able to pick up those two. You got any weapons?”
“You know I’m not supposed to—”
“Sure, you’re not supposed to. But do you?”
“I’ve got something at home,” Horn said carefully.
“All right. We’ll worry about the niceties later. For now, I think you should lay l
ow tonight, then meet me in the lobby of the hotel tomorrow morning at nine. If we can get this Eden Lamont to roll over on her boyfriend, I can have him in the tank by tomorrow night. All right?”
“I don’t know,” Horn said, still feeling resentment and anger at himself for not being more perceptive. “What about the hooker’s story? That wasn’t made up, was it?”
“No,” Coby said. “That happened. De Loach is a twisted character, no doubt about it. But he’s never killed anybody, far as I know. The fact that he likes to get rough with the girls made him a convenient patsy for Lombard—”
“What about Dolores Winter?”
“She’s something, isn’t she?” Coby said.
“You know what I mean.”
“You a little sweet on her? If so, I wouldn’t blame you. Anyway, I think she’s clean. Don’t forget, she and De Loach got banged up pretty bad the other night.”
“So that was Willie too?”
“In my opinion. We’ll know for sure before long.”
Horn had a thought, and not a pleasant one. “You said Lombard’s cleaning up his mess. That means Doll could be on his list—”
“She’s already got protection, remember?”
“And Alden.”
“Uh-huh.” Coby sounded thoughtful. “Him I’m worried about. I’m going to send a uniform over to watch his house. But these things take time, and we probably won’t have anybody in place until sometime tomorrow.”
“Can you move him out in the meantime?”
“I tried,” Coby said. “He’s a stubborn old guy. Won’t go anywhere.”
Horn held the phone without speaking. “Don’t feel bad,” Coby said, and this time Horn thought he could hear genuine solicitude. “Look on the bright side. At least you’re not on my list anymore.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Horn muttered and hung up.
Out on the street, Mad Crow noticed his expression. “What’s up?”
Horn got in and began talking as Mad Crow drove. When he had finished, Mad Crow took his eyes off the road to stare at him for a moment. Absentmindedly, he tugged at the brim of his hat, then reached back to fiddle with his ponytail. “I don’t get it,” he said at last.
While I Disappear Page 33
