Trouble in Rooster Paradise

by T. W. Emory

I sympathized with the usher’s appraisal. The girl was a looker, nicely wrapped in an olive green outfit made from tissue faille from no rack I’d seen lately. It was tailored to show every bump, dip, and half-moon to advantage. She stood about five-foot-four, not counting her cloche or her platform sandals with puff pastry nap that made them more art than footwear.

  I finished eyeballing the girl and collected my change. As I started back toward the auditorium, I noticed her parallel with me but headed for the ladies’ room. Before she ducked out of sight she turned around and scanned the lobby like a deer reconnoitering a salt lick. Our eyes met long enough for me to feel weighed in some balance and found harmless. I shrugged, popped a few more kernels in my mouth and went back to my seat.

  I’d come to the movies to assuage a snubbed psyche. I’d rushed to my office to meet a client at the end of the day. He’d seemed iffy on the phone in the morning and rather loath to discuss fears of his wife’s infidelity, so I wasn’t exactly stunned when he was a no-show. But I didn’t like being stood up any more than the next guy, so the movies it was.

  I sat on the right, five rows from the front. Since it was a Tuesday night, and the crowd was small, I had a section all to myself. So I couldn’t help but notice a few minutes later when the skittish brunette from the lobby plopped into my row just two seats away. We exchanged a quick glance. Even in dim light she had a face that caused double takes. I did one. She didn’t.

  She crossed a stunning pair of legs and started twitching her raised foot in a fascinating rhythm that distracted me through Ticket to Tomahawk. When not watching Anne Baxter, I stole peripheral glimpses at her face, toe, and calf. Miss Jittery didn’t look at me once that I could tell, though every few minutes she glanced back up the aisle as if expecting an unwelcome guest.

  After the first movie ended, she went back to the lobby. I thought I’d seen the last of her. But just as Howard Duff came on the screen, the girl dropped noisily into her seat again. She continued to toss glances up the aisle, and my attention was now divided between the fidgety brunette and Ida Lupino.

  As Woman in Hiding ended, she stood up with the applause and looked up the aisle again. She seemed more at ease than when she’d sat down.

  I stood and asked, “Did your assassin stand you up?” I was smiling a non-wolfish smile as her head snapped back toward me.

  She half whispered, “Excuse me?”

  It was then that I made my remark about her being jittery and she told me to mind my own business.

  I put my hands up in surrender and pretended to be duly reprimanded. My role as Guardian of Womanhood had ended for the day. It was just as well. I was bushed.

  “Suit yourself,” I said as I inched toward her. “But do you mind?”

  She hadn’t moved from her spot and was blocking my way out, so I indicated for her to step aside.

  She backed out of my way and stepped on the toes of a somber-looking dowager waddling up the aisle.

  “Oh! I’m so sorry,” she said to the woman as I slipped by unscathed.

  I’d parked my Chevy near where Market Street meets Leary Avenue and was opening the door when I heard the clacking of heels on the sidewalk behind me. I turned to see the girl from the movie house approaching. She looked a little sheepish.

  “Say, mister, please wait up a moment.”

  So, it was please now. And I’d gone from buster to mister. In the glare of the streetlight I gave her closer scrutiny. She looked to be in her early twenties and had a heart-shaped face and the high cheekbones that made Suzy Parker model of the decade. She nuzzled me with those lovely almond eyes some Scandinavians have—the epicanthic fold, they call it—one of the features Laplanders and Orientals have in common. Her mouth, free now of the strain of censure, was soft and childlike. Her lips had a cute, pouting quality that she used to full advantage.

  “I want to apologize for being rude back there,” she said.

  “No problem. I’m in the habit of being a little nosy and have grown used to rudeness. Comes with the job.”

  Her head jerked slightly, and I might have dismissed it as a nervous twitch had her voice not risen an octave. “Are you a policeman?”

  I quirked an eyebrow and smiled as I shook my head. “No. I’m a private detective. I work out of an office here in Ballard.”

  “Oh.” She was relieved.

  “My name’s Gunnar Nilson.” I extended my hand but intentionally did not move toward her. She took the two steps needed to reach me and gave my paw a gentle squeeze.

  “Christine Johanson. Happy to make your acquaintance.” She said it with a sugarplum voice and a fondant smile that put me in the mood for bonbons. Up close, her eau de cologne was a faint mix of sandalwood and cigarettes. “You were right, back there at the movie house.”

  “Oh?”

  “I do think I might be in some kind of trouble,” she said demurely.

  “What seems to be the problem?”

  “A man is following me—at least I think he is.” As she spoke she gave a quick glance from left to right as if her words might conjure him up. I looked with her, but nothing was out of the ordinary—just moviegoers blending in with the few pedestrians about.

  “Is this guy a masher?” I asked.

  I was abruptly taken from my story by Kirsti. “What’s a masher?” she asked with a puzzled look in her eyes. “I mean, I know what a potato masher is, but you must mean something else here, right?”

  “Yeah, I guess it’s not a word that’s used much anymore,” I said wistfully. “At least not in the way I used it. A masher in those days was a man who made unwanted advances to a woman he didn’t know.”

  Kirsti thought that over and nodded.

  “But, Blue Eyes, maybe save up your questions as best you can for when we take a break. Otherwise you might derail my already fragile concentration.”

  Anyway, I asked Christine if the guy following her was a masher. It was easy to imagine a lustful barfly chasing after this girl—whether in or out of his cups.

  She shrugged, her brown curls flouncing on her shoulders. “Perhaps. I’m not sure. I think so. I had just parted with a friend and started walking down Market Street when I noticed him. He hasn’t gotten close enough to talk to me. I’ve managed to keep distance between us. It’s as if he’s … hunting me.”

  She seemed genuinely distressed. And I’d seen how she’d looked entering the Ballard Theatre. But, like Sam Goldwyn said, once an actor can fake being honest he’s got it made.

  “Do you think you lost the guy when you ducked into the movie house?”

  “Perhaps … I don’t know. Frankly, I’m still a little shook up by it.”

  Her moment of uneasiness when she thought I was the law got me curious. Normally, a cop would be a welcome sight for a gal in her kind of difficulty.

  “Would you like me to drive you to the police station?” the scamp in me asked.

  But her earlier alarm must have been a rare lapse. No reaction this time. She just shook her head and touched my arm. Christine’s voice had a seductive rumble to it as she said, “Would you mind dropping me off at home?” Hers was a siren’s glance—half dare, half coy. The sparkle in her eyes hinted that she’d be a very grateful passenger.

  I watched as she minced over to a nearby phone booth, green skirt flailing. “I’ll phone my aunt to let her know I’m on my way. She’s such a worrier.”

  After she’d made her call she gave me an address I placed about ten blocks up from us—west, over from Ballard High School. I headed us east on Market Street for Fifteenth Avenue. It was soon apparent we were being tailed.

  “Looks like your friend might be behind us,” I said, fighting an urge to put more pressure on the gas.

  Christine didn’t spin her head around as I thought she would. Instead, she scooted over to where she was practically in my lap and peeked discreetly in the rearview mirror.

  “What makes you think he’s behind us?” she asked, not bothering to move once her look in the mirr
or was over.

  “Educated hunch.” But that was an understatement. Cruising down Market Street, I’d noticed a newer model Packard slipping smoothly into traffic a car length or so behind us. The driver maintained a consistent distance. What cinched it for me was his obvious attempt to keep pace as we moved north on Fifteenth—a four-lane main drag that runs through part of Ballard’s business district. Even when I casually changed lanes, my pursuer dogged me. Whoever he was, he was either bad at tailing—or wanted the girl to know he was after her. My money was on the latter.

  “Do you want me to stop and confront him? Scare him off?”

  “No … um … he’s probably just some drunk.”

  “He doesn’t drive like a drunk.”

  “Can’t you just lose him?” Christine asked, a plea in her eyes.

  Not bothering to answer, I continued driving several blocks until a car finally nosed in front of our pursuer. I eased up on the gas a bit as we approached a traffic signal, hoping that the light would turn red by the time we reached it.

  We came to the light and I braked at the first glint of yellow, causing the driver behind me to lay on his horn—the Packard snuggling up tight behind him.

  “Brace yourself against the dash,” I barked. When the light turned red I stepped on the gas, making a screeching left turn in front of an oncoming motorist that forced him to slam on his brakes. In my mirror I could see the Packard frozen in place. Christine was looking at the same scene—one hand gripping the dashboard, the other one squeezing my right thigh.

  I sped along for three blocks in a residential area before making a hard right onto a side street with cars parked on both sides. I drove about thirty yards and pulled the Chevy in front of an older Willys I hoped would provide cover.

  When I killed the motor, Christine scooted over to her side of the car. She was no modest damsel prying free from an hysterical clinch. More like a boxer returning to his corner at the end of a round.

  “Do you think you lost him?” Christine asked, not bothering to look back.

  “We’ll see.”

  She started fumbling with the contents of her purse and asked, “Do you have a cigarette, Gunnar?”

  I shook my head. “Sorry. Don’t smoke. Quit.” I reached into my shirt pocket.

  “Care for a clove?”

  She screwed up her face and shook her head slowly. I popped one of the dried flower buds into my mouth and began to casually crush it with my tongue against my teeth, releasing its numbing oil. Christine watched me.

  “It’s an old home remedy for toothache,” I explained.

  “Do you have a toothache?” she asked.

  I shook my head and said, “Life’s a toothache.”

  Her need for a smoke made her talkative.

  “A girl I work with—her name’s Meredith—she’s always saying that a girl has to look out for herself because no one else will.”

  “She sounds hardboiled.”

  “Mere? Oh no. She’s just very matter-of-fact. She’s sensible. I really appreciate that about her. Meredith’s a great friend.”

  Christine told me she was raised in Spokane, but had moved to Ballard to live with her aunt. She divided her time between classes at the University of Washington and part-time work at a boutique; but she eventually dropped the schooling and started selling fancy gifts and toilet water full-time.

  After a polite listen, I gave her my business card and intended to ask her for her phone number. She anticipated me. I knew a discouraging remark when I heard one.

  “Seattle’s still such a hick town. I’m not setting down any roots. I won’t be staying here much longer. I’m putting away some money. My dream is to live in a penthouse apartment on Park Avenue, in New York. It’s good to have dreams, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, sure. Dreams are good.”

  “Of course the best dreams cost lots of money,” she said.

  I didn’t agree or disagree. At the time my dreams consisted of cutting a rug to music with a heartbeat at the Palladium, at least until I saw that hoped-for sparkle in the eyes of my date of the week. Or sometimes I just looked forward to quaffing a bottle of Pabst with my feet up and listening to pleasant mood music on KOL or KOMO—which at the time tended to be Hawaiian tunes.

  We saw no Packard during our ten-minute palaver. At Christine’s insistence I drove a zigzagging route south about ten blocks. Aunt Emelia’s Victorian looked to have been built when Teddy Roosevelt was whacking away with his big stick. It was liberally decorated with fancy moldings, turrets, and bay windows, which gave it a false appearance of affluence.

  I pulled in the driveway and Christine smothered a visit-ending yawn with a delicate fist—that universal way of saying, “Is it that time already?” I knew I wouldn’t be meeting Aunt Emelia.

  We faced each other and she took my right hand in hers. She squeezed my palm and playfully ran the index finger of her other hand up the front of my shirt—starting at my chest and ending at my chin. With a tug on my lapel, she pulled my face close to her pursed lips and gave me a full-mouthed kiss. She quickly pulled away and whispered, “Thank you,” as she hopped out of the car.

  I didn’t surprise easy, but she shut the car door before I could even say, “You’re welcome.”

  The stone footpath sloped upward. Christine walked in long climbing strides but with no urgency. Her faille skirt sculpted the back of each round and solid thigh as one leg shot in front of the other.

  She disappeared inside the house. She didn’t wave or look back. I didn’t expect her to.

  I’d struck out on getting her phone number, and though she had mine, I was certain she’d not be dialing it anytime soon. I wasn’t the stuff her dreams were made of.

  But it wasn’t the last time I saw the girl. No, not hardly.

  Chapter 3

  I’d driven Christine home Tuesday night. A police summons rousted me from my bed in the middle of the night Wednesday. And now, in the wee hours of Thursday morning, I was seeing Christine once again. She was definitely slumming it. She wore her hair up this time. She didn’t look so good. A summer dress of rayon crepe enshrouded the lumpy pile she’d become in the alley off Ballard Avenue. I was of no further use to her. The cops hoped otherwise.

  A white-haired medical examiner squatted over her body. He shut his black bag, looked up, and said, “She died before she hit the ground.”

  “Dragged to this spot after she was shot,” said Detective Sergeant Milland. “Killer wanted her back a ways. Out of sight.” He was looking at Christine’s foot as he pointed to the blood trail. One of her platform-soled sandals had fallen off, and the toe of her nylon was roughed up and torn. Her skirt was hiked up so that one of her thighs and the fringe of her underwear showed.

  “Gal had a nice set of legs,” Milland said. “A real shame to go and break a dish like that.” He didn’t mean it to be funny, and nobody laughed.

  Cops in Seattle ran a gamut that included the crooked, slightly bent, and those who mixed virtue with their dishonesty. Frank Milland was not-so-crooked with honest leanings. Under his fedora he wore short-cropped hair that was prematurely gray and made him look well over forty. But I knew he was no more than thirty-five, since he was only a couple years older than me. He’d tried to enlist during the war despite a wife and kid, but a severe case of hammertoes barred him from the army. He became an embittered civilian and an even meaner cop who waged his war on the many Seattle criminals unlucky enough to get in his way before the defeat of the Axis powers. We’d first met in the late ’30s, when I was a neophyte detective working for the Bristol Agency under the tutelage of Lou Boyd. Frank and Lou didn’t exactly get along. Lou’s wit didn’t meld well with Frank’s boorishness. But I respected Milland’s expertise and ignored his bad manners. We didn’t really become anything resembling friends until after the war.

  Milland pointed to purse spillings near where Christine’s body had dropped.

  “Your business card was bent double and crammed in her
compact. Looks to me like she wasn’t too excited about remembering you. Was she one of your dissatisfied clients?” Milland asked me. “Something she tell you that might tie in with this massacre?”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “No, to both questions.”

  “We didn’t find no money or identification on the girl,” said a big-toothed uniformed cop standing off to the side. “Looks to have been a robbery.” He then added a “maybe,” with a nervous glance at the detectives.

  Milland shook his head as he looked at the body. “A messy robbery,” he said. “If that’s what it really was.”

  “Girl’s name and address?” This question came at me from Milland’s partner, Bernie Hanson, a middle-aged man with a weather-beaten face and a vacant stare. Hanson had the voice of a radio newscaster doing an ad for a funeral parlor. He held a pencil in one hand, a notepad in the other.

  “Christine Johanson,” I said. I could only remember the street number. “She lived with an Aunt Emelia. I didn’t meet the aunt.”

  “So, how’d you happen to meet up with this gal?” Milland asked, pointing to the body.

  I told them the story.

  When I’d finished, Hanson asked, “Get a look at the driver of that Packard?”

  “No. I just shook the guy for her.”

  “It seems he didn’t stay shook,” Milland murmured, giving me a level stare.

  Walter and I rode in mortuary silence back to Mrs. Berger’s. We walked through the kitchen side door at one a.m. At least that was what the kitty-cat wall clock read—though it tended to run slow. The cat’s moving eyes signaled each tick; its pendulum tail wagged like an inverted metronome. That and the refrigerator’s hum were the only sounds to hail us. I shut and locked the door as quietly as I could.

  A plate of inky black blobs sat on the drain board. Waxed paper sheltered them. It was Mrs. Berger’s latest cookie experiment. She’d decided to call them Nightmare Drops. As volunteer guinea pigs, Walter and I each grabbed one.

  We glided through the pantry and dining room and hopped, stepped, and tiptoed past Mrs. Berger’s bedroom door. We were lucky. It was shut and she didn’t stir—telltale signs she’d dosed herself with sleeping powder.