by Terry Mort
There was a funny smell in the room. I couldn’t identify it exactly, but patchouli came to mind. Maybe that was it. The apartment obviously came furnished, because all the stuffed chairs and the sofa had that sagging, depressed appearance of things that had been forced to stay in service beyond their expiration date. It was only one room, with a kitchenette along the back wall, one closet, and a bathroom large enough to turn around in if you had to.
The distinctive feature of the place, though, was the amount of artwork on the walls. Even I could see that these weren’t the usual cheap copies of senoritas or bullfighters. They were elegant-looking nudes—a half dozen of them arranged tastefully above the sagging sofa. I bow to no man in my appreciation of nudes, but I have to say I prefer it when the nudes are women. These weren’t, and there was no attempt to disguise the fact, for all of the winsome lads in these pictures were facing the painter in various states of exuberance. The six paintings were all of different people, although they all shared a common well-endowedness. All but one were of young men with an effeminate look to them. The other one was of an older man, somewhere between forty and fifty and in good condition. I looked closer at each of them, checking for the signature of the painter, and was only mildly surprised to see the name “Wilbur Hanson” in the lower right-hand corner.
I wondered why Kowalski hadn’t mentioned this aspect of the case, although it was possible he hadn’t personally examined the apartment.
Even to my untrained eye it was clear that the recent Wilbur Hanson was a talented painter. Unfortunately, I didn’t see any Monets anywhere on the walls. I looked in the only closet, but there was nothing in there except a few silk suits, a silk kimono, a half dozen pairs of shoes, and a rack full of ascots. I rummaged around in the dresser drawer but found nothing beyond what you’d expect to find.
The rest of the apartment seemed bereft of hiding places—no dropdown overhead, no hollow-legged tables or chairs. I turned over all the cushions, thinking he’d maybe sewn the painting amidst the springs, but there was no sign that the ancient material had been disturbed. The cushions themselves had no zippers. I gave the rest of the room a thorough going-over, but the only paintings in the apartment were the ones hanging on the wall.
So it would seem that if Hanson had the painting, he had it stashed somewhere, and the odds of finding out where were long, to say the least—which meant my next move would be to meet with the husband, tell him the semi-truthful tale about the possible forgery, and then let him take it from there.
I also wondered where Hanson had done the nudes. Obviously, this rather dingy apartment would not do as a studio, and besides there were no paints or easels or anything to indicate that he’d done these portraits here. It occurred to me that might be an avenue to investigate.
I had a cup of coffee at a sidewalk café that had a view of the beach, if you stood up. There were the usual ragged hobos in the park across the way: drunks, drug addicts, the simple-minded, and the philosophers. They came here according to the season and got rousted by the cops and put on buses to Phoenix. But there were always others to replace them. They were like water coming in through the bottom of a leaky boat. Bail away, but there’s no end of it. Well, it’s hard to beat this weather if you have to sleep outside.
It was getting close to seven, the time I was going to meet Perry. I was just about to leave when a woman came up to my table. She was firmly in the first category of California women—a soul-selling opportunity.
“Do you mind?” she asked, as she sat down opposite me and crossed her legs—an exercise worth watching. If she’d been wearing silk stockings, they would have made an alluring swish. But she wasn’t, and she didn’t need them.
“Never minded anything less in my life, unless you have a commercial proposition in mind.”
“Do I look like that kind of girl?”
“No.” She did, of course, because those kinds of girls come in all shapes and styles. So I’m told. But one must be gallant.
And she was a stunner. Auburn hair that looked natural, blue eyes, full lips that, surprisingly, did not have too much lipstick despite the current fashion. She was wearing a tight-fitting low-cut jersey top with alternating blue and white horizontal stripes, like a French sailor, and cream-colored shorts. Everything was tastefully snug and left very little to the imagination. Her clothes were like the sheer curtain that gets drawn after the main curtain has gone up. A formality.
“Are you a cop?” She had a velvety sort of voice and precise enunciation, a phony-sounding combination that you can learn at any one of the acting schools in this town. These schools were generally on second-floor studios run by faded bit players with a theory and a nose for business. Somehow those places never made sense to me, because their basic message was “I can’t make a living as an actor, but I can teach you how to become a star.” They were the acting equivalent of a matchbook correspondence school in diesel mechanics or hairdressing. But as I said before, hopefulness was a widespread local affliction. Very contagious.
“So, what’s the deal?” she asked. “Who are you?”
“I’m still working that out.” I said this with a disarming smile, which she took for what it was worth.
“I saw you at the apartment a little while ago. You were in Wilbur’s place.”
“Oh. Yes, that was me.” I know it should be “that was I,” but it sounds so prissified.
“Well, are you? A cop?”
“No. Private. But I am working on the investigation.”
“Private dick?”
“Right. Name’s . . . Bruno Feldspar.” Again, the difficulty. I gave her a card.
She smiled, showing just a trace of kindly ridicule. “What kind of name is that?”
“Just a name. You know the line—‘What’s in a name? A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.’”
“I heard that in a movie, I think.”
“It’s possible.”
She studied me for a moment, trying to decipher something or other.
“You don’t look like a Yid. Feldspar sounds like a Yid name.” That was true. It was one of the reasons Ethel suggested it. In this town, it helps.
“No, strictly Presbyterian. What’s your name, honey?”
“Rita Lovelace. And don’t call me honey.”
“All right. And what kind of name is Rita Lovelace?”
“It’s a name I figured the studios would like.”
“I agree. It’s nice. What’s the real one?”
“Isabelle Fern. Not that it matters. I’m not in trouble anywhere.”
Now it was my turn to smile. We understood each other, at least on a superficial level.
“So what’s on your mind, Rita?”
I could see her composing herself into an attempt to suggest sadness, if not exactly grief.
“It was terrible about Wilbur.”
“I’m sure he’d agree, if he could.”
“He was a friend of mine—nothing romantic. Just a friend. I figured you must be a cop, so I thought I’d see if you’d learned anything beyond what’s in the papers.”
“No, there’s nothing much beyond what’s been reported so far. For some reason, he went to the woman’s house, broke in, and got shot for his pains. That kind of thing is an occupational hazard for a burglar. We still can’t figure out why she shot herself.”
Rita snorted.
“Some cops. It shouldn’t take more than two seconds to figure that one.”
“What are you suggesting?” I asked, all innocence. “Lovers’ quarrel?”
“What else? Wilbur was no thief. Not a burglar, anyway. Besides, he told me he was seeing someone who was in the chips. Must’ve been her.”
“She shot him and then, feeling guilty, shot herself? Is that your take?”
“No other explanation. I knew him. He wasn’t a cat burglar. He told me he was on the way to a big score.”
“Did he say what it was?”
“No.”
“What
’s your angle, Rita?”
She looked me over as if trying to make a decision.
“You say you’re not a cop, and yet you’re working on this case.”
“Just one aspect of it.”
“Who’re you working for?”
“That’s confidential. But let’s say it’s a private client, not the cops.”
“I get it.” She took a deep breath and then made her pitch. “You know, I’ve been to a few auditions lately. I’m an actress.”
“I never would have guessed.”
“Smart guy, eh? Well, I am. But this is a tough town. Jobs are hard to come by. You go to bed with three assistant producers for a one-day gig as a stand-in.”
“All three at the same time?”
“I wish. At least it would be over faster that way.”
“What do you do to keep body and soul together—between gigs, that is?”
“What do you think? I’m a waitress. In a diner on Sepulveda.”
“Maybe I’ll come by some day for meat loaf and mashed potatoes.”
“I wouldn’t, if I were you. I’ve seen the kitchen. Anyway, here’s the deal. I could use a few bucks to tide me over for a while. I’ve hocked the few things I have of any value, and my car tires are so shiny I can see my face in them. Tips have been poor lately, especially if they order the special.”
“I understand. What do I get in return?”
She looked at me again, still trying to decide. “Are you sure you’re not a cop?”
“Ever hear of a cop paying for information? Cops don’t pay, they get paid. How much are we talking about here, anyway, and what do I get for it?”
She took a deep breath. “Do you have a hundred bucks to spare?”
“Yeah, I do. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to spare it. Where I come from, that kind of money buys a lot.”
“Wilbur left something with me. A package. He said to hide it and not tell anyone about it. He said it was the key to making his big score. Well, he’s past caring now, so I figured I might as well make something for myself.”
I felt a sudden surge of interest that went well beyond the interest I had in Rita, qua Rita. Could it be that lovely Rita, full-time waitress and part-time actress, had a painting worth six figures resting in a closet behind her shoes? Could be.
“What’s the package look like?”
“It’s a cardboard tube. About sixteen inches long.”
“Did you look inside it?”
“No. Wilbur told me not to. It was sealed. But he said there’d be, ah . . . a hundred bucks in it for me, if I kept it for him for a few days. It was only for a couple of days.”
That little pause told me he probably really only offered her twenty bucks and a hamburger dinner at some greasy spoon, but I didn’t care.
“Where is it? The package.”
“After I get the money.”
“Deal,” I said, trying not to sound too eager. I took out my checkbook and wrote her one for a hundred dollars, tore it off, and handed it to her.
She looked at it skeptically.
“You know, cash is better than a promise. And a check is only a promise. I’ve been stiffed before.”
“Join the club. But obviously I don’t have that kind of cash on me.”
“What if we wait until tomorrow?” she asked. “The banks open at nine.”
“All right.” If she had what I thought she had, I didn’t like the idea of waiting until morning. On the other hand, I didn’t want to frighten her or give her the impression that the package might be worth more than a hundred. Tomorrow would come soon enough. After all, she had made the deal, and besides, where else could she go to find a better one? Between now and the morning, that is.
“It’s not that I don’t trust you. . . .” She smiled and looked at me from beneath some spectacular eyelashes. They almost looked real. The smile seemed a bonus, unrelated to the transaction in progress. I have to admit I felt a little fluttering here and there. Twenty-four hours ago, I’d been feeling sorry for myself about Lily. Twelve hours ago, I’d been congratulating myself about Myrtle. And now I was thinking lewd thoughts about someone I’d met ten minutes ago. There must be something wrong somewhere. Well, whatever it was, I did want that cardboard tube.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “In financial matters, prudence is always the best course.”
She laughed and almost doubled over, revealing her flawless and braless breasts.
“What’s so funny?”
“There was a girl in high school called Prudence, and all the boys used to say the same sort of thing. She wasn’t much to look at, but she was very popular with the boys.”
“Oh. Well, maybe some other time I can explore the rest of your biography. But let’s do business first. How about if I pick you up at your apartment tomorrow at nine sharp? Meet me by the pool and we’ll go straight to the bank, after which you can give me the package. I assume it’s in your apartment?”
“No. It’s in a safe place. I’ll take you there when we finish at the bank.”
“Fair enough.” It was probably a bus-station locker. That was as good a place as any to stash something, for the time being, or, in fact, forever, as long as you didn’t lose the key.
“Okay. See you tomorrow.” She smiled again and then walked away, giving me the distinct impression that she knew I was watching the way those cream-colored shorts were moving. And, as a matter of fact, I was.
But I was also excited for another reason. It was hard not to believe that I was this close to getting my hands on the second Monet, whether it was the fake one or the real one. Either way, it was well worth a hundred bucks of Mr. Watson’s money. What’s more, I’d get the chance to know Rita a little better. You never know when you’re going to get a hankering for diner food, although in this case I’d be sure to steer clear of the meat loaf. It also occurred to me suddenly that I had met Myrtle in a diner in Youngstown. Could it be that I was becoming a specialist in this kind of rare fauna?
I had fourteen hours to wait, so I figured I might as well check in with Perry to see what, if anything, he’d turned up.
He was getting his boat ready for the evening trade when I got there.
He saw me coming down the pier and waved.
“Hey, Perry.”
“Hello, Bruno. Say . . . is that your real name?”
“Everybody asks me that. What do you think?”
“Beats me. But if it was me, I’d consider changing to something a little more believable for a private dick.”
“I’ll think about it. But to the matter at hand—were you able to find out anything?”
“Yep. I found the dame. She’s working on the Lucky Lady, which is one of the better buckets out there.”
Interesting. That was where Emily Watson’s husband had been at the time of the murder/suicide.
“Working as a cigarette girl?”
“Started out that way, but didn’t last. Right now she’s not really working at all, unless you count staring at the ceiling a couple of hours a day. She got hooked up with Tony Scungilli. Ever hear of him?”
“Not that I remember.”
“He’s a wise guy, of course, and a gambler. His nickname is Tony the Snail. He runs the operation on the Lucky Lady. Nice enough fella for a goombah, long’s you don’t cross him.”
“Why do they call him the snail?”
“I can see you ain’t up to speed on your shellfish. A scungilli is a big salt-water snail. Like a conch. Very popular in Italian food. I like it in my pasta with tomato sauce.”
“Is a snail a shellfish?”
“Comes in a shell, don’t it?”
“I’ll take your word for it. But you know, it seems kind of funny that Catherine Moore made such a quick conquest.”
“Well, despite his nickname, Tony doesn’t let any grass grow under his alligators.”
“Alligators?”
“You know, his loafers, custom-made. But there’s a funny angle to th
is story—one of the bouncers filled me in.”
“I’m ready for a laugh.”
“Turns out, this dame is a dead ringer for one of Tony’s old girlfriends. She was a movie star a few years ago and ended up dead in some crummy motor court out in Joshua Tree. Drugs, of course.”
“Not Minnie David?”
“That’s the broad.”
“I’ll be damned.”
“You know the story?”
“I’ve heard it.”
“Anyway, Tony was with her when she bought it, because in those days he was peddling a full sample bag of booze and drugs. This was before he got promoted to running the gambling on the Lucky Lady. You got to work your way up in that business, same as everywhere else.”
“He was with her when she died?”
“Yep, and the word is it hit him pretty hard. Word is, he loved the dame. Actually took the time to call the cops before getting the hell out of there. Anonymously, of course.”
“And they say chivalry is dead.”
“Whatever. But just because a guy’s a gangster don’t mean he don’t have a heart when it comes to certain dames. They can be pushovers, too. So when he catches a glimpse of Catherine Moore. . . .”
“I get it.”
“You understand that this little bit of information about Joshua Tree shouldn’t get around.”
“Sure. I’m surprised your friend was willing to tell you.”
“We do some business together now and then, you know?”
“No, and I don’t want to know.”
“Usually the best policy. He was Tony’s driver that day, which is how he knows. Told me the guy had real tears in his eyes as they got the hell out of there.”
“Touching.”
“Ain’t it.”
I wondered what Hobey, my writer friend at the Garden of Allah, would make of this coincidence. And it certainly was a fine coincidence. Two heartbroken swains suddenly jerked back into their lost romantic dreams by the same platinum blond lookalike, who only wanted to be left alone to pursue her dream of being a cigarette girl, and yet for reasons beyond her control got pulled out of her dream into theirs. I wondered what the Italian word for “schtupping” was.