by Jack Lynch
“Yes, don’t you.” She took another sip of her drink, then pushed it away and got up. “I think I’ll leave the rest of that. And you, Mr. Bragg. Don’t bother getting up; I live just up the hill. Since you’ve found your Cookie Poole, we probably won’t be meeting again.”
She turned to leave. What she was saying was that she hoped we wouldn’t be meeting again.
“That’s okay, Miss Moss. I think we’ll be seeing each other around.”
She turned back, her face guarded and questioning.
“I live in town here myself,” I told her. “And who knows, I might decide to get it on with Terri Anderson after all. You and I might end up running into each other all over the place.”
She didn’t say anything, but went quickly back into the bar. I finished the bourbon, but by then there was a new, bad taste in my mouth. I again wished that Samuel P. Moss had gone to a different attorney, or that Dave Baumer had recommended some other investigator. The more I saw of young Melody, the more I knew things were going to get more rotten. She had a streak of meanness, maybe abandonment, that could lead her down the worst sort of streets. It was certainly nothing that was deserved by the gentleman of good values who lived over in Stanford Heights. I hated to be the one who would have to tell him what she’d become. I wasn’t even sure yet what that was, but if I kept after her much longer I knew I’d find out. Maybe I’d find out that very night. I went inside and used the pay phone to call Cal Gentle.
Cal told me Cookie had agreed to meet me in the Marin City housing project. He said I might not want to keep the appointment, considering where it was to be held. I said I did a lot of things I didn’t really enjoy, and asked when and where we were to meet.
Cookie had said anytime between ten and eleven o’clock that night. That would give me time to swing by my apartment and arm myself, but I decided against that. If I got myself into trouble in Marin City, that really wasn’t the way I wanted to go about getting myself out of it.
I drove out to the north end of town, but instead of taking the turn-off to Marin City right away, I drove into the Marinship Basin area and went out Six Pier to the Donita Rose. I wanted to have things out with Red Dewer. Maybe it would even give me a little better idea of what I wanted to say to Cookie.
The tide was in and the colony of houseboats were riding high alongside the docks. Somebody on one of the other piers had a raspy cough. I almost tripped over an old bicycle while gaping off toward the noise. Soldier Smith wasn’t keeping up very well with the burned-out light bulbs. It seemed half of them were out. The others could do little more than act as way points, leaving sections of the pier in darkness.
Dewer’s boat at the end of the pier was dark also. I climbed over the rail anyhow and tried to raise somebody. Nobody answered my knocking. I tried the door on the pilot house. This time it was locked. I went back to the car and drove on over to Marin City.
Cookie had told Cal Gentle he would meet me in the parking lot alongside a little community general store. It was across from one end of a large, vacant field that was the site of a popular flea market on weekends. It attracted people from throughout the Bay Area, and made you wonder where all that merchandise came from. It would be a rich trove for archeologists of a distant age if something cataclysmic happened during the weekend of the Marin City Flea Market.
On a weeknight the field was empty. A light breeze herded scraps of litter across the dirt expanse, while the traffic on Highway 101, just beyond the cyclone fence at the far side of the field, gave the night a background hum.
I pulled into the parking lot alongside the closed-up store. A couple of other cars were there, dark and empty. I didn’t see anybody. I got out of the car carrying a flashlight. I went around to the front of the store and looked around the other side. Still nobody. I walked back to the car and on down to the rear corner of the building. I didn’t see anybody there, either. But when I turned back, three men had gathered by my car. Who knew where they’d come from? It was their turf. I walked back slowly. One of them addressed me. He was the right size to have been the man who’d leveled me in Cookie Poole’s kitchen the day before, but I couldn’t see his face that well yet.
“Bragg?”
“Yeah. Cookie?”
“That’s right.”
“Why don’t you ask your friends to go wait around a corner? I just want a quiet conversation between the two of us.”
“You got heat?”
“I could have had, but I decided to leave it at home.”
He stepped forward and patted me down. This time I saw his face well enough to recognize him. He murmured something, and the other two wandered up toward the front of the building.
Cookie’s voice had a lazy drawl. It wasn’t Southern authentic. The kids from Marin City went to the same schools as the kids in Sausalito and Mill Valley, a lot of them. This drawl, I suspected, was a stamp of local identification, a laid-back patois used the way gang members wear a distinctive jacket or some other item of clothing.
“I hear this friend of yours, this Cal Gentle? That he was some kind of heavy dude years back. Where’d you get to know him?”
“We met in an Oakland courtroom. He was standing up to a second-degree murder rap. A couple of cops gave tainted testimony. I was able to disprove some of it because of another matter I’d been working on.”
“Why would you do that?”
“I don’t think you’d understand. But Cal did. We met later and got on well. We’ve kept in touch since.”
“What were you doing in my house yesterday?”
“I apologize for going in when you weren’t there, but I was looking for you. You weren’t there, but your friend’s body was. I could see it, or a portion of it, through a front room window. I didn’t know if he was dead or just injured. He might have needed help. So I went in. You came in while I was phoning the sheriff.”
“You shouldn’t have gone in my house, man.”
“I told you, I apologize. I paid a price when you cracked me alongside the ear.”
“I might have shot you.”
“I guess you might have. That was a nice-looking weapon. Nine-millimeter, wasn’t it?”
“What did you want to see me about?”
“Melody Moss.”
He reacted to that. Something in his face changed. I still couldn’t see him well enough to tell how, just that it did.
“You do know her, don’t you?”
“So?”
“Some trouble’s come up in her family. They want me to look into it for them.”
“Why you? You know them too?”
“No. They went to an attorney for help. I’ve worked for the attorney in the past. He recommended me.”
“The family trouble involve Melody?”
His voice had dropped a little. The way he said Melody almost made it a kiss.
“I’m not sure if it does or not. They don’t want me to talk to her about it; that’s why I have to talk to her friends. How long have you known her?”
“A while.”
“Know her well?”
“Very well.”
“Good. You might be able to help me, then. The family would like that.”
“Don’t shit me, man, just ask the questions.”
He was right, of course. “She grew up in the city. How did you get acquainted with her?”
“Way most people get acquainted. Through a friend.”
“Was it her uncle, the attorney? Arthur Moss? I understand he lives nearby.”
“Just over that hill,” he said, gesturing with his head. He glanced around him. “But that’s Sausalito. That’s a million miles from here. No, I didn’t meet her through Arthur. It doesn’t matter who the friend was.”
“Okay. What sort of relationship do you have, business or social?”
“Hey man, do you know her at all?”
“Not really. I’ve met her, but that’s about all. That’s why I’m asking you.”
He folded his arms and
leaned back against the side of my car. “We do both. We do a little business from time to time. And we put in a little social time as well.”
“Her father will be glad to hear it. He thinks Melody spends all of her time with white people.”
He smiled gently in the gloom. “She spends a little time with a lot of people. Melody is a very social being.”
“Do you know her fiance, Duffy Anderson?”
He uttered something I didn’t quite get. It sounded contemptuous, whatever it was. “We have met.”
“Do you and Melody still put in a little social time together, now that she’s engaged to be married?”
“I told you. Melody is a very social being. Why don’t you move along to another question?”
“Sure. What sort of business dealings do you have with Melody?”
He thought a minute. “I’m sort of her agent, man.”
“Agent? What sort of agent?”
“I represent her from time to time. Get her little jobs. She’s an actress, you know.”
“So I’ve heard. Are you an agent for other people? Is that what you do?”
“I do a lot of things. For Melody, I’m an agent.”
“Okay, Cookie. We could be out here the rest of the night dancing around this way. I’m going to level with you. Somebody sent Melody’s father some photos of her. Also in the photos was a white man named Red Dewer. He lives across the highway, in Marinship Basin. Maybe you know him as well.”
The expression on his face didn’t change.
“In the photos, Melody didn’t have much on in the way of clothing. Dewer had less. There are people in the city who tell me you might have been in the background when those photos were taken. They said the photos were publicity stills that could have been shot during the filming of a movie. I thought you might have some idea who sent the photos to Melody’s father.”
Cookie Poole slowly dissolved into movements of soft hilarity. It is a very expressive series of gestures and dips I’ve seen black people go through to extract the richness of a mirthful situation. It is much more appropriate, somehow, than the way we whites just open our mouths and honk out a laugh.
He dipped and grinned and made slow-motion steps that didn’t take him anywhere, and his laugh was soft. His friends came back around the corner to see what was going on. Cookie settled down and waved them away.
“Oh man, you have made my day. That is the funniest thing I ever heard of.” He leaned against the car and caught his breath, then shook his head and said, “Whew.”
“Maybe you could tell me about it.”
“Sure, man, I’ll tell you. Normally, I wouldn’t even be talking to you, you know? But then Cal Gentle, some other things, make it all right this one time. And I did give you a pretty good whack on the head yesterday.”
“Yeah, you sure did.”
“Well, I sent the photos, man. You’re right, they’re from a little publicity package. She’s a star, man, a real star, among some other things. I wanted somebody to see just what a star she was, so I sent the photos. But it wasn’t to her daddy, man.”
“Then maybe they weren’t the same photos.”
“They have to be, you know? The man I sent the photos to was her uncle Arthur. He must have sent them along to her daddy.”
That one brought my mind to a standstill. It backed up some, trying to get things straight. “That’s nuts.”
“It has to be, man. It has to be.”
“Okay, let’s take it a step at a time. You sent the photos to Arthur. When?”
“Last week. Before I went to L.A.”
“Why would you send them to Arthur?”
“I wanted Arthur to know what she was all about. Arthur’s a lawyer, and he represents himself very well. But in some ways he’s a jughead, man. I wanted him to know what she was all about without saying it to his face. There were reasons I wanted him to know, but he still doesn’t. Or just doesn’t want to.”
“Would you mind explaining that a little more? I’m beginning to feel a bit dumb myself.”
“No, man, that’s enough. The rest is between me and Melody, and Melody and some other folks. You don’t need it.”
He was wrong about that, but there was no sense in pursuing it. “So be it. Why do you think Arthur sent the photos along to his brother?”
“You’d have to ask him. I could make some guesses.”
“Make one.”
“Arthur’s inept in some areas. Family is one of them. Maybe he thought Melody’s daddy could change some things about her.”
“Do you think he could?”
“No way, man.”
“No, I don’t think so either.”
Cookie’s face was all sober again. He’d had a good laugh, but it was behind him. He leaned against the car with his hands in his pocket, looking somber and chilled.
“I hear you have some outside financing for the movies you make.”
Somber went away. Flint came in. Cookie took his hands out of his pockets. “I’ve said all I’m going to say about that. Till now you have seemed like a smart enough dude. You should stay that way. Not ask anybody any more about that. Not everyone wants their business put out on the street like that.” He held up one hand straight in the air, his eyes on my face. His friends came sidling back around the corner of the store. “It would be a good time for you to go now. You know?”
He moved away from the car, over to the building. I crossed and opened the car door, then paused.
“Who do you think killed your friend?”
“I don’t know.”
“In your house too. That must worry you some. It would me.”
I left him leaning against the store building, his face closed up tight.
NINE
I had looked up the addresses of some people earlier in the day. It probably was just another coincidence that both Melody and her uncle lived in Sausalito. They weren’t close neighbors, by any means. Melody lived in a quite comfortable two-story apartment building on Bulkley, up on the hill above the immediate downtown area. Arthur lived in one of a cluster of apartment buildings at the north end of town, up on the hill just east of Marin City and across from the Marinship area. Highway 101 climbed up the same hill, behind the apartment buildings, to go over Wolfback Ridge before dropping down to the Golden Gate Bridge.
Melody had to be doing okay somewhere to be living where she did. I hadn’t checked on the rent of the apartment building she lived in for several years, but I expected it was a couple of hundred dollars a month more than I could comfortably afford.
The apartments Arthur lived in cost more. Years earlier, any number of airline stewardesses and other young professionals had lived there, doubling up to share the rent and the big swimming pool on the building grounds. I didn’t know how much of that might still go on. I suspected the rents had gotten a little too steep for them by now, even with doubling up.
Arthur had a nice location, three floors up with a balcony looking out over Richardson Bay and the Marinship area. I had phoned from a booth to make sure he was still awake. He complained about the hour, but he didn’t sound very sleepy. I told him it was important, and that it involved his brother and Melody. He almost gulped over the phone. I think he felt the same way about it that I did. Might as well get it over with. He told me to come on up.
When he let me in the door, I had the impression he was entertaining somebody who was still there, probably in a back bedroom. There was some smoky air and other aromas in the room a little too feminine for a man. And some glasses. I wasn’t scandalized. Arthur was a bachelor. If I had an apartment with the view he had, I’d probably do more entertaining myself.
Arthur still had his shirt and tie on. Over that was an expensive-looking smoking jacket of some soft, tan material. He was wary when he let me in, but cordial enough.
“Would you like a drink, Mr. Bragg?”
“I don’t think so. You’d only feel like taking it back after I said what I have to say.”
“I suspected as much. This time of night.” He went over to a portable bar along one wall of the front room to refresh his own drink. “You might as well have one,” he told me. “No reason we can’t be civilized.”
“Okay. Bourbon on the rocks with a splash of water, if you have it.”
He poured it while my eyes roamed the walls. Arthur and Melody were attracted to the same niceties. Arthur had a collection of very modern art. None of it made any sense to me, but the pieces had interesting random forms and color combinations. There were one or two I could have lived with myself, though I wouldn’t want to have to explain them to friends. Some of them were originals, some prints. After a minute I went over to the sliding glass doors leading to the balcony, and stared out at the twinkling lights bobbing in the boat harbor.
When Arthur gave me the drink, he motioned me to a comfortable chair across from a sofa. He sat in the sofa. We sipped drinks. He poured very good whiskey. It had come from a decanter, so I couldn’t tell what it was.
“Let’s do it,” he suggested. “I have company waiting.”
“Okay. Maybe you already know why I’m here.”
“Maybe.”
“Somebody sent some photos of Melody and a white man to Samuel P. Moss. Pretty explicit photos. I sort of fibbed up at the Anderson place last night when I said my main purpose in life at the moment was to find Cookie Poole. I really was working for your brother. He wanted me to find out two things. Who sent the photos to him, and why. I think I’ve found out the who. I’m here to ask the why.”
His attempt to deny it was only a half-hearted one.
“Why are you here to ask why?”
“To get it over with. I’d like to be able to make out my report in the morning and finish the job. It hasn’t been a fulfilling piece of work. But I told your brother I’d do it. It would be far better, of course, if you picked up that telephone over there and told him yourself. It’s silly for a third party to be involved in any of this.”
“No, it isn’t,” he said quietly. “This was sort of at the back of my mind all along when I sent him the photos. I wanted him to hire somebody like you. To find out a little more than he knows about the sort of life his daughter is leading these days. I just didn’t expect to get caught at it. It never occurred to me that it might be more important for him to find out who sent the pictures than it was to find out why Melody was in them in the first place.”
