Hard Case Crime: Fade to Blonde

by Max Phillips

  “You’re working for Scarpa,” she said again, like somebody had sapped her and she was waiting to fall down.

  Then, starting with the eyes, a smile spread over her face. You’ve never seen a smile like that.

  I pity you.

  She said, “You’re — You really are the most amazing man I have ever met in my life.”

  “You ought to get out more.”

  “That is brilliant. That is better than anything I could possibly — It’s perfect. I’ve been sitting here, waiting to tell you that I’d been, um, unreasonable is a kind word, and that you could have more time, if you needed it, and all the while you were — ” She shook her head. “I thought you’d run off again. I thought you’d run off. Not that I’d have blamed you. I was horrible to you yesterday, and I’ve also been waiting here to apologize.”

  “That’s all right. It wasn’t all bad.”

  “I suppose,” she said, flushing a little. “Anyhow, Ray, I’m sorry. I act badly when I’m frightened. I’ve spent too much time sitting in my room being frightened.”

  “Maybe we can fix that.”

  “I think you can. I know you can. This morning I know you can do anything.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Isn’t it a beautiful morning?”

  “It’s almost a beautiful afternoon.”

  “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go for a ride.”

  I got in the car, and she pulled out and headed down Hawthorne to Rosecranz, then swung north on Vista del Mar, and we went cruising up the coast with the big silver tanks of the refinery on one side and the waves along the other. People say the weather’s always perfect in L.A., but what they really mean is always sunny. Most of the days aren’t actually perfect. That one was. Even the oil tanks looked pretty, and then we’d left them behind, and off to our right the waves were loping along, the edges like fine silver chains, seeming to braid and unbraid themselves. I come from way inland, and that stuff always stops me.

  “It’s worth it,” she said. “Oh, it’s worth the risk. I should have done this days ago.”

  I said, “You’re not telling me that’s all this heap’ll do.”

  “No. I guess I’m not.”

  “C’mon, then,” I said.

  She eased her foot down on the gas, and the big car surged smoothly forward until the needle read 85. It wasn’t anything for that car. She held it there for a minute, then said, “That’s as far as I go, for now,” and eased it back down to 60.

  “This is some car. What are you laughing at?” I said.

  She said, “You. You just sitting there with your face in the wind like, I don’t know. Some big dog. I don’t mean that in any bad way. It’s just, you’re always trying to be so tough, and here you are just riding along in the sun and enjoying it so much.”

  “It’s a nice day.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “It’s not a bad car, either.”

  “I’d like you to have something.” She picked her purse up from the floor under her knees, set it on her lap, and started rummaging in it one-handed.

  “Don’t run us off the road,” I said.

  She held out a dollar bill, folded twice. “Here.”

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s from yesterday. I wish you’d take it back.”

  “What for? You—”

  “No, please. Please don’t say whatever you were about to say about, I don’t know. Services rendered or goods delivered or whatever hard-boiled wisecrack it was. I wish you’d please just take it. Because I think I was very ugly to you, and if I at least didn’t make you give me a dollar, then, well, I don’t know, then whatever it was was something else. Nicer. Not just me trying to make a monkey of you.”

  “What would it’ve been? Without the dollar?” I said, taking the money. “Thanks.”

  “I don’t know. Something just silly and, I don’t know, sort of high-schoolish. I was still a nice girl in high school. Not the kind of nice girl who’s never done anything, but I hadn’t done everything, and I was still nice to people. I had a beau and I was true to him.”

  “Yeah? Was he nice too?”

  “Very nice. He was my own true love.”

  “You had one of those?”

  “Yes. Just one.”

  “They say that’s all you need.”

  “They say.”

  “What was nice about him?”

  “He was inquisitive.”

  “I guess that’s good. What happened?”

  “Well, after a few years, I guess he sort of stopped being nice. He was a nice boy, but he didn’t turn out to be a nice man.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I guess I stopped being nice, too. He was my own true love, and I wanted to keep him company.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then it was over. My God, to think about me being still nice. How long has it been since you were a nice boy?”

  “I don’t know that I was ever particularly nice.”

  “Please don’t say that,” she said. “It can’t be true. You’re nice now, in some ways.”

  “I think I’m about as nice now as I ever was. I used to be dumber.”

  “I can’t imagine you being dumb. But I can imagine you being nice in an angry, rough way, and sort of serious. Maybe too serious. Were you always a big reader?”

  “I never finished high school.”

  “I know that. Mattie told me. That’s not what I’m talking about, that’s just you being hard-boiled again. Were you a reader?”

  “I always liked books pretty well.”

  “Why didn’t you finish high school?”

  “I went out on the road. How’d you know that about the books? Mattie?”

  “No, I guessed it about you. You look at everything as if it was a problem you had to study up on.”

  “I do, huh.”

  “Yes. You have this patient look, like you’re listening very carefully to find out how we’ve all screwed everything up, so you can fix it.”

  “Sounds charming.”

  “Were you the one in the family that always thought it was his job to fix everything? And then, when everything started going to hell, you tried to stop it and couldn’t?”

  After a moment I said, “You’re a good guesser. What makes you say things went to hell?”

  “Because you went on the road before you finished high school. You wouldn’t have, not so young, if you could still have stood it there. If there was anyone left there who could care for you.”

  “I guess we all did what we needed to.”

  “You must’ve had to leave all your books behind,” she said softly.

  We were silent.

  “Well,” she said very brightly. “I never opened a book I didn’t have to. Or had an idea in my head I didn’t have to. I read lots of movie magazines and if you’d known me then you’d have thought I was one Dumb Dora. You would have sneered at my movie magazines.”

  “You know,” I said, “you’re right. I would’ve.”

  “You never read any yourself?”

  “All I could get my hands on,” I said, and she laughed. I laughed, too.

  “But you would’ve tried to stop me reading them,” she said. “You would have tried to improve my mind.”

  “I wouldn’t have had the nerve to talk to you.”

  “Maybe I would have talked to you. Do you think we’d have liked each other? Back when we were nice kids, reading movie magazines? I know you’re a little older, but let’s say.”

  “I didn’t like nice girls.”

  “Hard-boiled,” she said warningly.

  “No, it’s true. I liked Sin. I was praying for a girl who’d, you know, pull the book out of my hands and the glasses off my face, even though I didn’t wear glasses, and, you know, corrupt me. I thought I was a very serious guy, too, but I was hoping some red-hot mama would come along and make a wolf of me.”

  “And what happened?”

  “That’s what happened.�
��

  “Oh ho.”

  “Took a few years, though.”

  “So I’d’ve been too nice to be your girl. But maybe we could have been friends?”

  “If you’d ever talked to me, I’d have fainted.”

  “And after I threw a bucket of water over you and woke you up?”

  “Then I’d have made fun of your movie magazines.”

  “And after I kicked you in the shins?”

  “Then I guess we might have been friends. I don’t know, Rebecca. To tell the truth, you play-act so much, I couldn’t say what you’d be like if you stopped.”

  “Neither could I,” she said sadly. “I’m play-acting now?”

  “I couldn’t tell you, Rebecca.”

  “Neither could I,” she said again.

  We’d jogged through town just past the airport and were back on the Coast Highway now, and the road was rising as we came around the curve toward Malibu. I could see Point Dume off in the distance.

  I said, “Aw, hell, Rebecca. I’m sorry. The truth is, I may be too old to faint, but you pretty much scare me now.”

  “I scare all the boys,” she said. “All of them with any brains. Well, so much for our beautiful friendship.”

  “Even if it never happened,” I said, “it was nice while it lasted.”

  “Yes, at least we’ve got our memories.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Our movie magazines. Your glasses.”

  “Your bucket.”

  “Do you know what I really would’ve said to you, Ray? If I were your friend?”

  “What?”

  “I’d tell you, stay away from that Rebecca girl.” She leaned toward me. “I’d tell you: Run, run as fast as you can!” She fell back against the seat, laughing.

  “Yeah,” I said. “But if I was your friend, I’d say, Sorry, I’m sticking around anyway.”

  “So I guess it wouldn’t matter, me warning you.”

  “I guess not.”

  “You keep looking back in the mirror. Why do you keep looking in the mirror?”

  “Rebecca?”

  “Yes? What’s back there?”

  “You wouldn’t set me up, now, would you?”

  “What do you mean?” she said.

  “The same car’s been behind us for the last fifteen minutes. I’m pretty sure it’s been with us since we left my place.”

  “It’s him,” she said in a horrible little voice with no breath, and stamped on the gas.

  The big engine took hold, and I felt us both being mashed back into our seats.

  14

  Iron

  The speedometer said 70, then 80, then 90. The wind rushed by my ears with a scraping sound.

  “All right,” I said. “That’s enough. That’s not necessary.”

  “He’s going to burn me,” she whispered. No, it was worse than whispering. “He’ll burn me.”

  105, and starting to rock a little. Rebecca’s face was stretched taut and her lips were white, and behind the sunglasses her eyes were huge and lopsided. The cords were out on her throat. She looked as if she were forty years old and hadn’t been living right. I set my hand on the back of her neck and stroked it. “It’s okay, Rebecca,” I said. “This isn’t necessary. Just stop it.”

  “He’s going to—”

  “No. You think you’re panicking,” I said. “And that you can’t stop. But you can, any time. You can stop now. Right now. Now just slow down.”

  She didn’t answer.

  I scooted closer, slid my left leg under both of hers and lifted my knee. The back of her knees felt delicious against my leg. I can’t help it, it did. I humped up my leg under hers, and both her feet came off the pedals and the car began to slow. She stared hopelessly straight ahead, gripping the wheel, feet dangling, tears trickling down her cheeks. “That’s right,” I said. “That’s right. You’re getting it back under control now. All righty.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “You’re okay now. I’m going to take my leg away. Will you hold it at 60?”

  “Yes.”

  “Say it so I believe it.”

  “Yes.”

  I pulled my leg back and she set her foot gently on the gas. We settled in at 60.

  “All right,” I said. “There’s someone behind us. We don’t know who. If it’s Halliday, he can’t do anything while we’re all driving along, and it won’t help to put us in the ditch.” I looked back again. It was still there, a big car, dark blue and gleaming in the sun. “If it’s him, the one thing we don’t want is to lead him to your house. So we’re going to turn off in a minute, and see if whoever it is turns off with us. If he does, I’m going to meet him. What’s in the trunk?”

  “What? Nothing. A spare.”

  “Good,” I said. We’d just passed Topanga. “Take the next turnoff,” I said, and started working the trunk key off the ring hanging from the steering column.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “If it’s Halliday? Take back the initiative. Here’s the turnoff.”

  We turned up Tuna Canyon, a dirt road crawling up a little gully full of scrub and weeds, olive and brown. If the blue car turned in, we’d know.

  I said, “This’s as good a place as any. Pull up over there. Now, nothing much’ll probably happen, but if you see or hear anything you don’t like, just take off. But don’t go to your house. There’s a diner called Charlie’s Gold Medal on Western and 137th. Go there and tell Rina you’re my friend and need to wait in the office upstairs. I’ll call you there as soon as I can. If you haven’t heard from me within, say, four hours, you’ll have to use your judgment. All right?”

  “Western and 137th,” she said. “Okay. I’m sorry about before.”

  “Good girl,” I said. “Right over here.”

  I was out the door while the car was still rolling and trotted around to the trunk. It was the cleanest damn trunk you ever saw. The tire iron was right where it was supposed to be. It was just the right length and weight, too, and I took a few practice cuts with it, getting used to the gravel under my feet, wishing to God I’d worn my gun that morning. With the Colt, all you had to usually do was show it and folks got peaceable. I left the trunk lid open to block Rebecca off from whoever came up behind. We’d raised a trail of dust and it stung my nose. The blue car turned off the highway and began cruising toward us. I wasn’t too worried about a bottle of lye. He wouldn’t slosh it at me, for fear of getting some on himself, and he wouldn’t want to carry it up to a guy with a tire iron that might break it. And I couldn’t see him setting out in the morning with a bottle of lye and a gun, both. Then I realized how dumb I was. If it was Halliday, he most likely carried a gun the way he carried a handkerchief. The big car coasted to a halt, glittering. It had been polished to within an inch of its life. The driver sat still for a moment, then got out. I was even dumber than I thought.

  He reached back into the car and set a ten-gallon hat on his head. It was Lorin Shade.

  I started laughing.

  He walked halfway up to us, then stopped. “I didn’t know it was you,” he said. “I thought it was some fancy fella, in those clothes. You can put that iron down now. I guess you got the right to laugh. I guess it’s laughable.”

  His eyes were steady, and so was his voice, but you could see what it cost to keep them that way. He was bitterly humiliated. At the sound of Shade’s voice, Rebecca shot out of the car and stood staring, motionless. I put the tire iron away and closed the trunk. “Don’t mind me, Shade,” I said. “It’s just nerves. You gave us a fright.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. Then he looked at Rebecca. That was worse than looking at me, but he managed it. “Hello, Becky. I’m awful sorry I worried you.”

  “What.” She shook her head. “What.”

  “I know you’re in trouble, Becky,” he said. “I guess you kid about it sometimes, but I know it’s bad. And I’ve been trying... I thought, if maybe I could just sort of quietly keep an eye. Just quie
tly. And, and they gimme some time at the Ever-Brite, and I know about, I guess I think about all these, these men you talk to, and, uh.” He couldn’t make it. He dropped his eyes. “I guess it’s all no part of my business anyhow. I’m awful sorry for the trouble.”

  “All right, Lorrie,” Rebecca said. “It’s all right.”

  “I’m sorry, Becky.”

  “Go home, Lorrie,” she said, eyes closed. “Just... go... home.”

  Shade nodded, and then nodded at me, and then walked, a little jerkily, back to his car. It was an old Buick, not a new Lincoln. It was awfully shiny, though. He backed up all the way down to the highway, and then we watched him turn and head south.

  Rebecca began to tremble. Her arms hung limp at her sides, but her hands were in fists, and the tremors started small and then got bigger, until it seemed someone angry was shaking her. I put my arms around her, and she set both hands flat on my chest and stared at them, then slipped her arms under my jacket and hugged me tight around the waist, mashing her face against me. The shuddering almost shook both of us. It went on for a little while. Then she grew still, gradually, and then she leaned back and looked wonderingly up at me. I lay my hand on her cheek and her eyes closed. I smelled the eucalyptus, and the chaparral all around us. I lowered my face slowly toward hers. Her lips parted and she let her head sink back luxuriously.

  When our mouths were an inch apart, I whispered: “You’re a goddamn liar.”

  She tried to jerk away.

  “You’re a liar,” I said. “Maybe it’s not even your fault. You were probably born that way, but you’d think you’d be better at it by now. I called Ciro’s yesterday. They never heard of you.”

  “What? I—”

  “Why lie about a little thing like that, unless the whole thing was a fairy tale?”

  “I used a different—”

  “Why use a false name to take a job as a hat check girl?”

  “Let go of me.”

  “It’s okay. I lied too. I never called Ciro’s.”

  “Please, I can’t—”

  “Think straight, sure. That’s why we’re talking now, because when you think, you lie. How much of that story was true?”

  “He’s going to burn me. Let me go.”