by Helen Jacey
But she wouldn’t have offered it to anyone. She’d seen potential in me to be a private investigator.
I had to pinch myself.
Me.
I stopped to cross over at a traffic light. In seconds, I was surrounded by a bunch of uniformed school kids being led like ducklings across the street by their jolly teacher. The kids were babbling and laughing, with bright, gap-toothed smiles. Cute. Maybe I wouldn’t cross here.
Lurking underneath everything was an uneasy sensation, down in the deep jelly of my bones, maybe something only a shrink could diagnose. Forget Beatty’s foibles, I was my problem. Even I wouldn’t put my faith in me.
The painful truth is that I had never got to know what it felt like to pull it off. To achieve, to prove myself to anyone. Gwendoline died too soon, Billy treated me like a spoilt kid.
Wait a minute. Beatty’s training could equip me with skills to investigate Lauder as well, not that she would be any the wiser. I’d obtain more dirt on him for the day when he dragged me back to the desert. Investigating Reba T. would surely have to be the first step. What if Rhonda was in Reba T.’s clutches? What the hell could I do? Steal her away? Going back to her granny’s house wasn’t an option. Lauder knew where to find her there. He’d just take her right back, if he and Reba T. were working together.
Maybe Beatty could help with this, too. She’d be clued up on watertight methods to help Rhonda disappear, if I found her; I bet she’d have all the right contacts for fake documentation.
I’d love to pull that one off under Lauder’s nose!
I turned right down a side road. I was lost. The neighborhood was classy, big apartment blocks with lush front gardens. I peered in at the lovely homes. If it all went well, maybe I could live in one of these, one day. My own sprawling apartment, stuffed with modern art and a wide balcony overlooking the city. I could swan around in an ivory housecoat and painted nails.
As if. I burst out laughing.
Me.
Lie low. Do Lauder’s bidding. Get on his right side. Make him see you deserve a new chance. Forget this craziness. Rhonda is fine.Shut the door and bolt it. Tomorrow is as far as you can think and that’s pushing it.
No. I could do this. What did I have to lose?
The mid-afternoon sun was belting down. I found a drugstore and bought an ice-cold cherry soda. I headed for a pay phone.
I had two calls to make.
First, Thelma. I told her a lady P.I. would do initial enquiries for nothing, and she didn’t need money upfront, so to hold off selling her ring. Thelma’s voice cracked with relief. I told her not to talk to any more cops. She hesitated, but agreed.
Secondly, I dialed Falaise Investigations. Therese was friendlier. She purred that Beatty was ensconced with a client, ‘a very complicated case’. Beatty had left a message for me to meet her later at eight at an Italian restaurant – Luigi’s.
Beatty had known I was in before I had.
A wind of change, and this one didn’t have a chill. The Santa Ana was soothing me, coaxing me along gently.
I was carving a life out for myself, away from Lauder’s noose. The sobering thought followed that it was all on the back of Shimmer’s tragedy. I had her to thank for it.
RIP Shimmer.
41
The restaurant was off Melrose, a small buzzy place. Most of the diners were rowdy Italian-Americans, babbling over red and white gingham and spilt Chianti. Wall murals of fishing villages and olive groves drove the message home that this was a defiant outpost of the homeland.
Beatty was already there, filling a corner booth. She had changed for dinner, now sporting a dark purple suit and floral silk shirt with black and beige flowers. Around her neck was a triple rope of black seed pearls, which matched her earrings. She wore a large brooch with a massive amethyst surrounded by onyx. On her wrist, a chunky bracelet with emerald-cut amethysts gleamed away. A little purple tilt hat with gold trim and black lace perched on her head. She clearly relished fashion.
As I approached, Beatty looked her new associate up and down. Something like approval gleamed in her eyes. I’d changed into my navy suit with the simple polka dot blouse. I’d blotted off most of my lipstick. I was now somber, professional-looking.
She was already celebrating, a fluted glass in her hand, a bottle of something fizzy in an ice bucket. There was another flute on the opposite side of the table. I guessed it was for me.
Celebrating the rehabilitation of an offender and she didn’t even know it.
We shook hands. Regular business partners having a meeting over dinner.
So this is what being a career woman felt like.
We sat down. Beatty told me her beloved dachshund Florabel was at home giving birth. She’d left the whole matter with Mr. Falaise to deal with, as he wasn’t squeamish. ‘Another reason I just do divorce. No nasty surprises, no dead bodies to trip over.’ The way she said it implied she’d seen her fair share. By the time our meeting was over, she’d return to a basket of squirming pups in her house, and did I want one? I said no, no dogs, no cats.
No entanglements, period.
Beatty grabbed the empty flute and filled it up, handing it to me. ‘Anyway, to finding your missing person.’
The proprietor, Luigi, approached the booth. His dried-out walnut of a face cracked into a stained smile at the sight of Beatty. ‘Hey, Signora Fa-lay-zee, why you no come such a long time? Where is Florabel? Ah, she have the bambini, yes? Very good. Very good. Who is la bella signorina? Bellissima, caro. A friend of Signora Fa-lay-zee, a friend of mine.’
I was tempted to answer in pidgin Italian but shut up. There was no point in drawing unnecessary attention to my past, however relaxed I felt. As they chatted, I got the distinct impression that Signora Falaise had helped Luigi out of a tight corner or two.
Eventually, Luigi sauntered off. Beatty smiled fondly after him. ‘This place was shut down when the family were interred in ‘41. Never mind the fact his sons were born here, and fighting for Uncle Sam. I gave a helping hand after, to get them up and running again. They paid me back in free lunches in less than a year. Still won’t take a penny.’
Billy and his friends had of course suffered the same, but I nodded as if I was learning it for the first time.
Beatty spread out her napkin over her lap, as if it was a map. ‘Sicily. Now that is one place in Europe I’d like to go.’
I’d had similar plans once. The way Billy described it, it sounded like going back in time. Olive groves, temple ruins, the azure sea, the slow pace of life. There was a darker side he didn’t dwell on. Complex, everlasting feuds, one of which eventually caused the death of his father. He never told me how, exactly. Billy had been just a kid, but I knew he’d witnessed something bad. ‘Bunch of nutters,’ he’d say, dismissively. So we never went. He built his small empire in the Elephant and Castle, and made his own way in life. He’d been proud of that. ‘Never took a penny from any of them.’ He never wrote to his remaining family, never mentioned them. Whoever they were, they didn’t belong in our life.
‘Hey, daydreamer! Back to business. Give me the lowdown on the missing girl.’ Beatty relit her pipe, leaning back, attentive.
Elvira Slate needed to eat in a local Italian without trips down memory lane. The memory of Billy belonged in the life of someone I had ceased to be.
I folded the corners of my napkin. ‘She’s called Rhonda. About eighteen, like I said. She’s half Welsh, half Mexican. Something like that. She’s sick, got a brain tumor and needs an operation. She lives in her dead granny’s house, next door to the old lady, Thelma, who’s worried about her.’
Beatty absorbed the information without batting an eyelid.
‘How do you know them?’ Beatty enquired. I rattled out my prepared answer. ‘I rented a room from Thelma. She was pals with Rhonda’s granny. Rhonda inherited the place. She lived there with her girlfriend.’
‘Lovers?’
I nodded, taking a big gulp.
�
�I saw Shimmer – the girlfriend – before Rhonda left that day. I was over there checking on Thelma. Shimmer was brimming with plans to get out of town, they were selling up for the operation. I know they’d had trouble with a boss. Shimmer creamed off some money.’
‘Stole it?’
‘She figured she was owed it. But there was bad feeling about it.’
Understatement of the century.
I remembered Lauder’s threats. Reba T.’s nasty reputation. And Shimmer’s words. Hush money.
I went on. ‘Last time I saw her, she was off to some meeting, said it was a nice little earner. Next thing I hear she’s dead.’
‘How did she die?’
Time to reveal the big-ticket item. ‘The girlfriend, Shimmer, was Ellen Cranston.’
Beatty puffed, looking blank. ‘Who is…?’
‘Ellen Cranston was found dead with Darlene Heymann and Frank Acker.’
Beatty spluttered into her bubbles, almost dropping her pipe. ‘Darlene Heymann? Frank Acker? Jeez!’
‘Rhonda left the same night the three died. Later, I think.’
Beatty shifted uncomfortably. ‘Go on.’
‘I got a call from Thelma, who’d heard the news, and was upset Rhonda had left without saying goodbye. Somebody picked her up.’
Beatty contemplated this. ‘Overdose. Young folks today. When they gonna wise up? Tragic.’ She took a slug of wine. ‘Sounds like a narcotics hook-up to me. Word is Ellen Cranston was the supplier, who liked to partake of her own wares.’
I pulled a blank expression. I wouldn’t throw Shimmer under the bus on principle. ‘She didn’t look the type.’
‘So where are you living now?’ Beatty asked. It was an odd question. I squirmed, avoiding her gaze. ‘Just some boarding house. In the Palms.’
Beatty gave me the fisheye but didn’t press. ‘Know who the boss is? The one they had trouble with?’
‘Name of Reba T.’
Beatty puffed. ‘Reba T. Don’t know her.’
‘And her ex-husband now passes as a woman. He has his own nightclub. Joyce’s. Shimmer liked him…I mean her.’
Beatty put down her pipe and took a slug. ‘Real underworld stuff. Your girl ain’t no missing person, honey. She’s running from the law and the old boss. Probably a good thing, too.’
It was the confirmation I needed. I tried to hide my relief. The cold facts pointed to the fact Rhonda decided to leave and she had her own reasons. Maybe she and Shimmer had a plan that if things went bad, Rhonda should run with the money in any event. It was hurtful to the overprotective Thelma but she was losing her marbles and maybe they’d decided to keep her in the dark.
Beatty looked intently at me. ‘About the Darlene Heymann and Frank Acker deaths. Cranston, I mean this Shimmer girl, could have supplied the drugs, she’s from that world. Rhonda could have cleared out fast because she didn’t want to get implicated.’
Beatty might be relieved, too. Narcotics and death were far more sordid than her customary uptown divorce cases.
‘So I guess that’s it?’ I said.
Beatty took a puff on her pipe.
‘Sure. Until her body shows up and you feel rotten as hell you did nothing about it.’
42
Beatty leant forward and lowered her voice. ‘Lesson number one. No matter how pretty the path, leave no stone unturned.’
I prodded an olive, uncomfortable. Beatty had reactivated my anxiety. ‘You think she could be in danger?’
‘Lesson number two. Assumption? Until you see her with your own eyes, you don’t know. I don’t know. Nobody knows. I can assume from the facts, so can you. But an assumption ain’t gasoline. Won’t get you anyplace, anytime soon. But sometimes, it’s all we got. That’s where lesson number three comes in. Follow your instincts.’
I tried to keep up. Check everything, assume nothing, listen to my gut. ‘So where do I start?’
‘Known associates. Maybe the transvestite ex knows something. Start there.’ She fished a car key out of her bag and slid it over to me. ‘I see you’re taking taxis. Wheels are on the house, till you get your own. There’s a car for you in the street opposite. Maroon. There’s life left in the old boneshaker. I’m fond of the old girl so try not to get into any scrapes. Let Therese know when she needs filling up. She’s got the coupons.’
‘Gee. Thanks.’ I wouldn’t be able to park it at the Astral. Malvin could report back to Lauder I had a set of wheels.
‘Temporary driver’s license in the glove box. I guessed your date of birth. If you’ve already got a license, you can toss this one.’
She knew damn well I didn’t have one. That she’d forged a license was interesting.
Beatty rummaged again in her purse, this time pulling out a small box. She slid it over to me. I took off the lid. Business cards. I pulled one out, a firm piece of white card. Embossed in black were the words Falaise Investigations.
I’d never had a card. I visualized my name on top in swirling gilt letters.
Elvira Slate. Private Investigator.
That would take some getting used to. But it would never happen. Somebody else’s business card was as good as it would get. But it was better than nothing.
‘If any boys from the LAPD rub you up the wrong way, slip ‘em one of these. Should smooth things over. If not, put ‘em onto me. Try not to antagonize the cops unduly. Some don’t take female detectives too seriously, which has its upside. In my younger days, I got many a guy to say more than he should just by looking cute. Men just love explaining things to us gals, don’t they?’ She chuckled into her drink. ‘Not so much Mr. Falaise, thank the Lord. He knows better!’
Beatty continued with the practicalities. Like what to wear. ‘Nothing like that cobweb blouse you had on earlier. Don’t get me wrong, it’s pretty. But I sure as hell won’t be forgetting it anytime soon. Stick to what you’ve got on now. Bland is best. Pantsuits and low shoes that you can sneak around and get out fast in.’ She also suggested a pair of clear glass spectacles. ‘Men don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses. Don’t remember them, either. And gumshoes,’ she said. ‘By name, by nature. Keep a pair in the trunk. There could be some there already, come to think of it. Gloria’s. See if they fit. And something girlie in case you need to use your charms. You packing?’
‘What?’ Then I got it. ‘No. No gun. Should I get one?’
She thought about it, rubbing her chin. ‘Don’t like firearms, personally. Tempting fate. We’ll see how it goes.’
Beatty plonked a set of keys on the table. ‘Keys to the office. I like to spend my weekends with Mr. Falaise, on the water, not as the hop to my new associate.’
I swallowed. If she really knew the truth, would she go so far? Open up her life, her possessions, her confidential clients’ information, to a former jailbird? My instinct told me she knew I was damaged goods, but not half as broken as I really was.
Beatty surveyed me. ‘Just don’t lose them. I can’t abide disorganized people.’
I picked the keys up and slipped them into my purse. ‘Thanks.’
Her gaze roamed over the tables. ‘One day, this town will finish me off. But not yet.’
Then she waved to Luigi, pointing at our empty bottle. ‘Darn it! We’re celebrating.’
Then she turned to me and said something I’d rather she hadn’t. ‘Don’t let me down.’
43
Beatty and I had got through two bottles of fizz, huge helpings of spinach cannelloni and two espresso coffees. I was almost sober by the time I found the car. I took one look at the plush maroon vehicle and it was like meeting an old friend from a former life.
If this was a beaten-up car by Beatty’s standards, I wondered what model she was driving. I hopped in and breathed in the old leathery smell. The steering wheel looked like polished walnut. I checked the glove box. Sure enough, there was the temporary license with my details, issued at Hollywood. It had all the required information and an expiry date. It even had a stamp and a number
.
Beatty knew a thing or two.
Driving again was a piece of cake. There was little traffic and I glided along, unable to wipe the grin off my face. It was like floating on air.
In some respects, the case felt like I was helping June again. Except this time, I would tread very carefully, guided by a professional, instead of blundering around, burning places down. Best-case scenario? Rhonda would turn up safe and sound. Worst-case? Reba the boss bitch was handing out punishment.
With these thoughts running around my head, I parked on the same street as Joyce’s nightclub.
I was even looking forward to being somewhere with music. Somewhere that wasn’t likely to be full of gossip columnists with their beady eyes on who was dancing with who. Low-key was the name of every game from now on.
Joyce’s was written in pink neon above the door of a low building. Luigi had put in a few calls and quickly found the address for the club.
A stocky woman in a man’s dinner jacket, a fedora and flats walked arm-in-arm with a glamour-puss with seamed stockings, high heels and fox furs, towards a narrow door in an inconspicuous building. I followed the butch and femme, but stayed on the other side of the road. They rang a bell, waited a while. Eventually, the butch spoke through a hatch. Someone on the other side let them in. The butch stood back, letting her lady enter first.
