by Helen Jacey
The finishing touches, a brand-new pair of white kid gloves and horn-rimmed glasses. No longer the gormless office girl, now I was a woman with a few personal problems who had finally summoned up the courage to get what she needed. She looked respectable enough to compensate for the seedy task she was about to give a slimeball private investigator.
I admired myself in the mirror. Fresh as a daisy. On the inside, a trampled one.
I drove towards Minski’s office in Culver City, stopping at a drugstore to down a cherry soda. Something was bugging me and I didn’t know what. As I paid for the drink, I noticed a newspaper on the counter. I should read it, but I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to see Dolly’s mugshot.
Not yet.
I wasn’t sure why. Because I was worried I would fail her?
There were a few tables against the wall, so I sat down to think. Think? Brood, more like.
You’re just like Dolly. All alone in the world.
Alberta’s words. Those were the ones that stung the most.
Only a few days ago, I was happy to ally myself with Dolly. So why was being like her, being seen to be like her, now eating at me? What unhealed scar had Alberta prodded, even unwittingly?
Alberta had made a casual observation. No way was it a dig. But the implication, however nicely meant, was that we were both pathetic, somehow.
Unwanted, alone and in trouble.
Was I, too, only headed for disaster? Had Alberta uncovered a secret dread? That maybe there was no cure for me after all.
Were Dolly and me doomed, like the bad girls, damaged girls, lost girls in all those moralizing motion pictures? Were we supposed to become nuns, forever paying penance? Or assume an identity of the nice girl with the stable loving family just to dupe some guy, pump out the brats and hope to God he never found out?
Try our best to fit into a society that condemns our truth, by living a lie?
Was that life worth it? Was what I was doing going to get me somewhere better? Was I already on my way, or was it all a big con? I was sick and tired of not knowing.
Alberta knew who she was. She had made a life. Her band, good friends, a musical passion. She knew who her family were, whatever she thought of her father. Her history was scarred by slavery; she had referred to it to me for a reason. To remind me even if we shared untold secrets—her forbidden love, my criminal past—that was the extent of our similarities?
To warn me not to make any assumptions that I could ever really understand her, or her friends in the band?
Maybe she was just telling me I should open my eyes and find out who I was.
Whatever she had meant, she would be right, on any of those counts.
If I didn’t want to be tragic and alone, I needed to do something different. But how were girls like me and Dolly supposed to change, to pretend certain things hadn’t happened to them?
A scar is there for a purpose. You can try to hide it, it can fade, but it’s always going to be there.
In mine and Dolly’s case, the deepest scar was loneliness.
I didn’t choose for Violet to disappear and leave me with the nuns. I didn’t choose to get beaten by bitches. I didn’t choose to be raised on the street by a no-good drunken cow whose betrayal landed me in reform school. I didn’t choose to be fostered by someone who spoiled me and then went and died on me.
I didn’t choose any of it.
But each loss tore open the original wound.
I never trusted a soul, and I never felt I belonged.
Everything after that, going with Billy, joining his underground world, those things I had chosen.
Because that life made sense. I was just as lonely but, surrounded by people and a world that was noisy and colorful, I could ignore my loneliness.
And whatever cards Dolly had been dealt, she didn’t choose her lonely fate, either. She was orphaned and she’d survived somehow and discovered her talent. She wanted to love, to be loved. She was desperate to be loved. She made up lies and promises to get love.
Nobody really did love her, though. Except maybe Zetty. People pitied her. Alberta looked out for her, but that wasn’t love.
Hot tears pricked my eyes.
Jeez! Get a grip!
I grabbed a napkin and turned to the wall. My cheeks felt hot. I had an overwhelming urge to call Beatty Falaise, to hear her voice. I could find some pretext to see her.
But she was sailing, having fun, or by now moored in some harbor having the time of her life. She deserved her vacation, free of worrying about her useless charge. I wouldn’t interrupt.
And what could I say to her, really? I didn’t even know what I wanted from her myself.
I blew my nose and slurped the rest of the soda.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself!
Alberta was right. Dolly and I were similar, as far as loneliness went. But Dolly depended on Elvira Slate pulling herself together and doing her best to save her.
I got up, feeling drained. The druggist watched me without smiling. Perhaps I’d looked a little deranged for a minute and he wanted me off the premises.
So long, Mister.
Out in the sunshine, I headed over to Mabel. Before I opened the door, I stopped, a thought striking me.
Becoming Elvira Slate had been my choice. I was trying to live my best life now, in a way that made sense to me. But was she just another survival tactic? Or was she a mask?
I had absolutely no idea.
And if she was a mask, she was the one that so far fit the best. But she got so heavy at times.
Sometimes I just wanted to lift her off, and see who was really underneath now.
24
‘Hello? Mr. Minski?’
My outfit worked its magic, imbuing me with oodles of confidence to bluff my way into Todd Minski’s affections. And I’d come up with the perfect scenario on the drive over.
A tearjerker fit for one of Martell’s slushy movies.
My boyfriend Bill had proposed to me, but paranoia was raging. I was convinced he was actually married with kids! I just needed proof he was a good guy.
And when Minski asked if I had any evidence that might lead me to suspect poor old Bill, I’d burst into tears and say, dramatically, that I smelt perfume on his jacket!
By winning Minski’s trust with my plight, I’d then ask him if he had any people who would vouch for him and the kinds of work he did.
And my name? Harriet Olsen.
I wanted to test his reaction to the surname and watch for a reaction. And should he ask if a relative happened to run a boarding house in Compton, well, yes sir, that’s my mother. What a coincidence. Why? Sure, I knew Willa and Dolly. Why ask?
How nice it would be for the scene to unfold like this.
Silence. I rapped again on the door. The buzzer didn’t seem to work.
Damn!
I called louder. ‘Mr. Minski? Mr. Todd Minski?’
I put my white-gloved hand over the doorknob and turned. Just in case it was open, and he was somehow out of earshot in a back office.
Locked, I’d have no choice but to come back another time.
But the door did open. It was dark inside. I stepped over the threshold. The venetians were pulled down, and flat.
‘Mr. Minski? Hello?’ I coughed to announce myself. There was a smell—old sweat and cheap aftershave clashing with floral notes. He was here, somewhere.
My eyes adjusted to the gloom, searching for the inner door. Maybe he was dozing. My hand groped around the doorway for a light switch. I found it and switched it on.
The front office had a two-person couch covered in a thick zigzag-patterned fabric, a low marble coffee table, and a pile of magazines in a holder. On the walls, a few prints of early light aircraft models.
At the far end, a door to another room, and a thin streak of daylight bursting through the bottom.
So Minski was in, all right. Maybe just hoping whoever it was would just go away.
I needed results. He would see
me.
‘Mr. Minski?’ I called out.
I marched over and rapped on the door. ‘Sir? May I come in?’
Silence. A creak. What was it with this guy? There was nothing for it but to bluster my way in. I turned the handle. ‘Sorry for busting in, but…’
Mr. Todd Minski was right in front of me. He stared down at me coldly, in the same disheveled suit. His white belly hung over his belt. His greasy hair flopped over his brow. His brown and white brogues, scuffed.
He would only ever look at me coldly. His shoes would only ever be scuffed.
He was hanging from the ceiling light.
Dead.
I reeled, hitting the wall. I grasped for my own neck, cold sweat breaking out, my heart racing a thousand a minute. I felt dizzy, everything went black.
I panted heavily.
It’s not you there, it’s somebody else, dummy.
My hanging nightmare was somebody else’s reality.
Wait, was I even alone? My hand instantly leapt to my purse for my pistol. I should get the hell out.
Stop! Think it through. Nobody saw you. Find out what you can. For Dolly!
I could do it. I could look through his papers. I was here for a reason and I had to do my job. I straightened up, wiping my brow. There was a low, two-door filing cabinet behind the metal desk.
I stepped back, noticing his feet were swaying a little. If he had committed suicide in a fit of despair, rage even, maybe Todd Minski wouldn’t care about his files being exposed to the world. If you’re dead, you’re dead. Ultimate acts of defiance didn’t care about consequences.
I kicked the door closed and locked it from the inside. If anyone came into the main office, there would be a chance they would just leave.
Now I was locked in a room with a corpse. A hanged man.
Today was getting better and better.
With a deep breath, I edged around the body and a discarded chair to the filing cabinet. Locked, predictably.
I checked the drawers of the desk. No keys, just a packet of gum, a lighter and a packet of French letters. Did Minski like to have fun in working hours? Did he offer ‘sympathy’ to some of the wives who came to complain about their husbands?
Surely the keys to the cabinet weren’t in his pockets?
I looked up at the body and shuddered. At some point, he had pissed himself. The stain was obvious.
He had been knocked off. I just knew it.
Faked suicide, the ultimate frame-up.
I picked up the chair and took a deep breath. What was it with this case? What felony was it called, anyway, rifling through a dead man’s body? Thieving from a corpse?
I stood on the chair. Carefully, I shook his jacket pockets and felt his pants. No jangle, no hard lumps.
The keys weren’t on him! The body wasn’t even stiff. In fact, it felt warm, or was I imagining it? I got a whiff of something rancid and foul. I felt an urge to heave and jumped off the chair.
Now what?
Pick the lock.
It would be slower and might not work. I removed a hatpin and went back to the cabinet and knelt down.
After a couple of minutes, it finally gave. I pulled open the first drawer and rifled through it. Nothing labeled. Bills, lease agreements, all had been stuffed in willy-nilly.
Nothing remotely like paperwork for a case.
The bottom drawer was a different story. A few hanging folders, with labels handwritten in dark ink, surnames in alphabetical order. Many were empty. Empty or emptied?
My hand instinctively went to the H section. Hunter. Nothing. Then onto P. No Perkins either.
My eyes scanned the other cases. Under one called Brown, there were some scrawled notes about what looked like a blackmail job with dates.
Phrases jumped out at me. Wife doesn’t know. Three hundred bucks per month.
Funny, low-key work with nobodies. Exactly the kind of case Lauder wanted me to take.
The click of a door. Voices. Men’s voices.
‘Buddy, you coming?’
My heart pounded as footsteps approached the internal door. ‘Hey, Todd, let’s roll.’
The handle twisted. I aimed my pistol at the door.
‘Bet he’s at the bar already, leaving his place wide open. What a dope. Better tell the old boy to lock up. Let’s split.’
The outer door slammed shut, leaving me and Minski alone again.
My heart slowed a little. I remained motionless. How long would it take the doorman to get upstairs and lock me in?
I scooped up the hanging folders, shoved them under my arm and crept out.
25
Sonia’s voice was impatient. ‘It can’t wait?’
‘No.’
She paused, thought about it, then told me to go straight to her office. I hung up, and left the gloomy dive. Three guys playing pool made a point of ogling me. I would have had a drink to knock the edges off my shock but was in no mood to be an exhibit for creeps.
By the time I reached the office, Sonia was already in the lobby, puffing on a cigarette. She glanced at my outfit, crushed her cigarette butt in a tall chrome ashtray, and ushered me through into a long leading to a large main office. Tidy dark oak desks topped with dark blue leather were devoid of the underlings who would normally sit here.
A young man was bent over a large file of papers. He had a heavy brow that gave him something of a permanent scowl. Or maybe he was just in a bad mood as the only person summoned in for work.
Sonia introduced him as Joseph Bergman, a junior attorney who had kindly volunteered to come in during the holiday to help her on the case. The rest of the staff and partners would be back in the New Year.
Joseph Bergman came over, with a smile that changed his expression from grumpy to cheerful. His thick bottle glasses made him look older than he was.
‘Joseph, this is Elvira Slate. The PI. She’s been doing a few things on the case.’
So he hadn’t been fully briefed about me.
Joseph smiled. ‘Good to meet you.’ His handshake was strong and warm. It was unexpectedly soothing, after the horror I’d witnessed.
I met his eyes, mentally thanking him for something he didn’t even know he’d done.
Sonia looked at me, eyes narrowing. Maybe she could tell I was in shock. ‘Have you seen the papers yet?’
I told her I hadn’t.
‘As I thought, they’re presenting Dolly as an obsessed stranger. No mention of the affair.’
‘They can do that?’
‘Her word against theirs. Hunter’s people will pull strings. The fact nobody knew about the affair could play nicely into Flannery’s prosecution.’
‘What about the doorman? He knows the truth.’
‘He’ll have been paid off by now.’
‘What about the writing in lipstick? How does that fit with the obsessed stranger theory? Why would a stranger do that?’
Sonia shrugged. ‘Like I said. Crazy people do crazy things.’
I gulped, looking from Joseph to Sonia. ‘This is really bad for Dolly, isn’t it?’
They both just stared at me. I felt annoyed. Didn’t my question warrant some kind of reaction?
I still had to break the news about Minski. Could I speak in front of Joseph?
Sonia read my mind. ‘Don’t know about you, but I could do with a drink. Joseph, do you mind closing up today?’
‘Hung himself?’
I knocked back the excellent gimlet. ‘Supposedly.’
Sonia and I were now sitting face-to-face in the swanky bar of the Roselton Hotel, with its mirrored walls and low, fan-shaped suede chairs and sofas around glass tables.
Genteel, discreet waiters with starched shirtfronts swanned around, holding trays high. The clientele was middle-aged and upwards. A rich, polished set. Parker was in her natural habitat. Elegant, expensive and superior.
‘And you are sure nobody saw you?’
I shook my head.
Sonia puffed on her cigarette.
‘Maybe somebody’s tying up loose ends. The person that instructed Minski could have had him killed.’
Somebody like Linda Hunter, I thought, but didn’t say.
The tinkling of a piano, a romantic classical-sounding melody, interrupted our thoughts.
A female pianist in a lemon chiffon dress with puffed sleeves sat at an ivory grand piano. She was in her forties, her dark hair piled up, wearing too much makeup for daytime. Her bright blue eyes twinkled, but at no one in particular. Her long, slender upper body swayed over-dramatically and her long fingers danced over the keys. Lemon and white paper flowers were pinned to her swaying head. She reminded me of a daffodil, blowing in the breeze.
Minski’s swaying shoes. I tried to shut out the image.
The Roselton was probably a pretty good gig for a forty-something hotel crooner, but I bet she hadn’t intended ending up here. She had the looks and voice to star in a musical. But something, somehow, hadn’t worked out. She came nowhere near close to Wanda’s verve. But she blended well with the fine and polite society at the Roselton.
She sang softly of love and regret. I tried to shut her voice out.
Sonia mused, ‘If somebody strangled Minski first, the coroner should be able to tell. Depends on the…skill of the killer in disguising strangulation with the rope.’ She leaned in, her voice lowered. ‘You’ve seen a corpse before?’
‘Put it this way, they’re stacking up.’
She nodded, relieved she didn’t have to offer any moral support.
‘Well, the Todd Minski connection is a bust. Somebody could have killed him, or else he was a depressive and things suddenly got to him.’ She let out a sigh and lit a cigarette.
‘I got the client files.’
Sonia’s brows jumped up.
‘There aren’t so many. Maybe the killer took others.’