Hard Case Crime: Baby Moll

by John Farris

  “I was looking for Stan,” I said pleasantly.

  The hedge clippers went chop-chop. “He’s not here,” he said in an unfriendly tone.

  “When would he be likely to get here?”

  “I wouldn’t know that,” the man said. “I just work here.”

  The front door opened. I looked at a girl in red toreador pants and a bare-midriff blouse. She had lots of soft dark-red hair with streaks in it like hot flame, high cheekbones, cozy blue eyes. She had a near-perfect figure and the clothing she liked made you instantly familiar with every good line of it. Her breasts were almost outsized. She stood with one hand on a stuck-out hip, the other on the doorframe.

  “Hello,” she said. She looked past me at the gardener. “Who’s this, Bradley?”

  “I don’t know, ma’am,” he said in his dignified voice. “He was looking for Mr. Maxine.”

  She looked at me. “Stan’s not here. He was, but he left just a few minutes ago.” She smiled. “Could I help?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Come on in anyway,” she invited, turning to let me see the profile. She stood straight, belly flattened a little too much, as if she were holding it in. I could see the rounded edge of her rib cage.

  I went past her into the house. It was very cool inside. The living room was wide and deep and shady, decorated and planned by an expert to seem as casual as a chew of tobacco. There was a patio beyond wide French doors, with gaudy lawn furniture.

  “I’m Gerry,” she said, sitting on the edge of the sofa. She was barefoot. “Are you a friend of Stan’s?”

  “Yes. Are you?”

  That got her. She laughed charmingly, a laugh that put dimples at the corners of her mouth. “I sure am,” she said.

  A sudden gash of sound startled me. It was a booming bass voice rolling out a piece of something from an opera. The singing was excellent, though loud enough to wrinkle glass. It ended as abruptly as it had begun. I looked around in bewilderment.

  “What was that?”

  Gerry shrugged. “Bradley. You saw him outside. He’s going to be an opera singer.”

  “What does he do around here?”

  “Oh, he works for Stan. He’s sort of a gardener and chauffeur, and he keeps an eye on the place. Spends most of his spare time taking singing lessons. He breaks out like that all the time. I’ve got used to it. The neighbors complain, though. The people next door moved away because their cocker spaniel went around shaking all the time and wouldn’t eat.”

  “Could you tell me where I might find Stan?” I asked her.

  She tossed her head, putting fingers to her hair. She slid a look at me I wasn’t supposed to see. It totaled me up like an adding machine.

  “I suppose he went back to the office. He’s president of Marlin Linen Supply Company. You didn’t tell me your name.”

  “His name’s Pete Mallory,” Stan Maxine said.

  Neither of us started guiltily. Maxine was standing in the doorway to the dining room looking at us. Gerry glanced at him casually.

  “I thought you were gone, Stan.”

  Stan mopped his misting dark face with a pink handkerchief. He wore a cream-colored suit, dull orange dress shirt with a black tie, and black suede shoes. His hair was tumbling on his forehead and he waved it back into place with fingers that trembled slightly.

  “I, ah, I forgot my stomach medicine, sweetie,” he said. His moist, moody eyes kept swinging back to me. There were acne scars on either cheek, and the knife scar at one corner of his mouth held his lips slightly apart and got in the way of his speech when he talked rapidly, which was most of the time. There was a congested look on his face as he suppressed a stomach rumble.

  “It’s probably upstairs,” Gerry offered, swinging one small foot briskly as she sat on the arm of the sofa.

  “Yeah,” Stan said. “Probably. Listen, honey, would you mind going into the kitchen and maybe stick the dishes in the washer while Mallory and I talk private?”

  Gerry grimaced unhappily.

  “Just for a minute or two, honey,” Stan coaxed. She picked up a pair of slip-on shoes and walked slowly toward the dining room. When she was close to Maxine she looked back at me and a smile touched one corner of her mouth. Maxine’s finger flexed, but he continued to look at her fondly. When she had shut the door to the dining room he took three big strides toward the sofa, his face pinched with fury, snatched up a big square pillow, turned and flung it at the closed door.

  “I’m gonna catch you one of these days, you little tramp!” he said fiercely under his breath. I didn’t quite smile at him. Stan always made the slightest movement seem incredibly difficult to achieve, throwing his whole body into a wink, a word, a gesture. I’ve never seen him still for longer than half a minute.

  “She’s cute as a speckled pup,” I said. “When did you marry her?”

  “She’s not my wife,” he said, turning his constant sneer on me. His hair had fallen out of place again and he pushed it violently off his forehead. Since I had known him he had shaved his sideburns. It was an improvement, but Stan needed lots more of them. His teeth gleamed inside the slight gap between his lips.

  He looked around the living room, then took a prescription bottle from his coat pocket, uncapped it, sipped some of the rich creamy liquid. He looked like it hurt him to drink it. When he had had enough he replaced the lid, dropped the medicine into his pocket.

  “About eighteen, isn’t she?” I said. From what I’d seen of Gerry she could be that young, or she could be ten years older. It was hard to tell.

  “That’s none of your goddam business. Gerry just looks young. She’s been around.” He eyed me narrowly. “I thought I’d never have to look at you again,” he said. “What did you come back for, Pete?”

  “Pick out a reason you like,” I told him, wondering if he’d heard about the mail Macy had been getting.

  “I don’t like none of ’em.” He walked around the sofa twice, then sat down, his anxious fingers finding a cigarette to play with. “You got a reason for coming here?”

  “I want to know which one of your boys is a chunky little customer with a sky blue hat and a white band.”

  He put the cigarette in a corner of his mouth. “Why?”

  “I ran into a shotgun ambush last night on my way into town. He was the triggerman. An hour ago somebody rigged a bomb in my car. There was enough dynamite hooked up to the starter to blast me to Key West. It may or may not have been the same lad. When I find him I’m going to blow his face right out from under that beautiful hat.”

  Stan put his head back and laughed. I could see gold in his teeth. “He’s not mine. I never knew you were coming. My boys wouldn’t goof the job twice, either.”

  I reached down and jerked him off the sofa by the front of his coat. He swung a wild fist at me. I stepped out of the way of it and grinned at him. His hands patted the rumpled coat. I had an eye cocked for a gun but apparently he didn’t carry one. His bad skin reddened. He stuck out a trembling finger at me.

  “You don’t shake me up no more, Pete,” he spit out, forgetting the good English in his haste. “I’m big now, Pete. I snap my fingers, I got two-three guys to blow your gut out. Sure, I know why you’re back. But you came too late. Macy’s on his way out. I’m the new man in town. You stay away from me or maybe I will arrange a party for you. Don’t mess with me.” His eyes were dull with hate. He jerked a thumb at the closed door to the dining room. “Don’t mess around her!”

  I looked at him until I thought he might try to slug me again. Then I walked toward the front door. I went up the two steps into the hall, then looked back at him. He had the pink handkerchief out again.

  “Maybe you’re right,” I said casually. “Maybe Macy’s through. But like you said — I’m back.” I was just popping off. But his shoulders hunched and he looked at me with one glassy eye. There was murder in it. The other was almost shut in rage. He drew back a little and his mouth opened and his neck swelled.

  I
opened the door and went outside, but not before I heard him shriek childishly, “I hate your goddam guuuuuts, Pete!”

  Chapter Twelve

  Three blocks down the street I saw a familiar figure in red pants hiking briskly along. When she heard the Buick approach she turned and gave me the thumb expectantly. So I pulled over and she hopped in.

  “I thought you were doing the dishes,” I said.

  She took a comb from her purse and went to work tidying her hair. “No. I went upstairs and turned on the shower a little bit. Stan’ll think I’m taking a bath and when I don’t answer he’ll think I’m sulking. Then he’ll go on back to work.” The comb made shushing sounds in her thick hair. “I thought you all would be talking a while longer. Stan might have caught me.”

  Gerry put the comb away and rooted around for a lipstick. She adjusted the rearview mirror so she could see herself in it. “Mind if I borrow this?”

  “What’s Stan going to say when he finds you’re gone?”

  She rolled her eyes. “He’ll raise the roof. But I know how to handle him... most of the time,” she added thoughtfully. She touched up her lips with a shade that might have been called Carnal Red. “I wouldn’t usually run out like this unless Stan said I could, but it’s kind of important.” She patted the full lips with a Kleenex. “He won’t give me a car. He’s afraid I’ve got other boyfriends.”

  “Don’t you?”

  She gave me a cautious look. “No. Not exactly. I’ve got a friend... but he’s not exactly a boy. He’s older. You going downtown?” I nodded. She settled back after turning on the radio.

  “Besides,” she said, “Stan’s got other girls. I know. I’ve seen one of them. I was supposed to be upstairs in bed. They were on the sofa. It was kind of dark. She was a blonde. I don’t like blondes.”

  “You go to school?”

  This tickled her. “Me?”

  “How old are you?”

  “Old enough,” she said wisely. She looked at me closely, as if she wasn’t quite happy riding with me any more.

  “Where are you going?” I asked her.

  “Oh, any place downtown will be fine. I’m going to the Coral Gardens Hotel — that’s over on the beach. But I can catch a bus or something.”

  “In those pants,” I said, “you could catch anything.”

  “Huh?”

  “As a matter of fact, I was going that way myself,” I said, and shut up.

  At the Coral Gardens Hotel I put the Buick in a no-parking zone square in front of the canopy. The Coral Gardens was a modest seven-story building, its yellow color mellowed and softened by the salt wind off the Atlantic that crept to the back doorstep like a great patient beast.

  Once the Coral Gardens had been a favorite of migrating and vacationing hoods from the North, but newer and more splendid places with names like Cote d’Or and Chateau Castile had lured the trade away. A few old-timers, friends of Macy, still settled there during the winter, but, on the whole, it had turned respectable.

  Gerry waited patiently for me to come around and open the door for her. “You busy right now?” she asked, stepping out of the Buick.

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  She took me by the hand. “I want to show you something,” she said urgently, and took me around to the back of the hotel, down a flight of steps to the damp smelly basement. There were dressing stalls for swimmers down here and puddles of water on the concrete floor. A window fan roared and rattled, and an old man wearing a T shirt stenciled Coral Gardens Hotel waited patiently for the puddles to dry so he could put away the mop he was leaning on.

  We went into a large room near the steps to the lobby upstairs. Here the air was cleaner and drier and sunlight touched all corners through two big windows. It seemed to be some kind of art studio. There was a raised platform against the wall under the windows and behind it was an old tarpaulin backdrop. Finished canvases leaned against the walls. Tubes of oils and brushes were scattered on a table convenient to an easel. There were a couple of sofas for lounging or other basic pleasures.

  Gerry pointed to a partially completed portrait on the easel. “Owen’s painting a picture of me,” she said proudly.

  I looked at it closely. She was posed astraddle a straight-back chair, one cheek resting on her crossed forearms. The expression on her face was stiff and lifeless. The rest of her nude body was very well done. Breasts jutted high, and the contours of stomach and abdomen were properly shadowed. Owen had duplicated skin tone well, but he was having some trouble getting the shade he wanted for her hair.

  “Don’t touch it,” Gerry warned. “Owen’s not through. It’s not dry yet.” She looked at me for approval. “It’s good, isn’t it?” I said it was good. She walked around the studio, looking at other paintings, her hips rolling neatly in the tight toreador pants. “He’s got talent,” she said. “Owen’s really got talent.”

  I wondered what Maxine would do if he knew Owen Barr was entertaining his girlfriend. I could imagine.

  I told her I had things to do. She made no move to go with me. I went up the stairs and met Owen Barr walking across the lobby. He had come out of the package store and carried a wrapped bottle under his arm. He seemed surprised to find me there. He wore an unpressed gray jacket and baggy dark green slacks.

  “Hello, Mallory,” he said, frowning past me at the basement. When I nodded he clutched the bottle more tightly and went around me, his eyes sulky.

  I got a room and key at the desk and went back downstairs. The door to the studio was closed, but it wasn’t much of a door. With my ear against it I could hear very well.

  “Are you going to paint this afternoon?” Gerry said.

  “I don’t know. Sick of it. Where’s a glass?”

  “Over there. It’s sure beginning to look like me.”

  “The tits look like you. The rest — I can’t seem to get the face right. Oh, the hell with it! You want a drink?”

  “No. Is something wrong?”

  “Everything’s always wrong. Come on and sit down.”

  “When do you think you’ll finish it?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I won’t finish it. What’s the use? I’m no damn good.”

  “You are good!”

  “No damn good. Aw, baby, don’t do that. I don’t feel like it.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t drink so much. I thought you were going to paint today. I sneaked out of the house—”

  “Just leave me alone. I don’t feel like listening. Maybe Macy’s right. Maybe it is just junk. I’m no damn good.”

  “Don’t feel that way.”

  “I’m glad somebody is trying to kill him. Really glad. I hope the bastard gets it good. All my life he’s ordered me around. Just a stinking big shot. Order me around. I never had a real chance. Nobody ever paid any attention to me, because of goddam Macy. I... I...”

  “Owen!”

  “You like me, don’t you, baby? Pretty Gerry — like me, don’t you?”

  “Sure I do, Owen. And you know I don’t like Macy any better than you do. Not after he treated me the way he did.”

  “The stinking big shot. You do this, Owen. You do that, Owen. I’m no goddam dog. I got feelings like anybody else. I never had a real chance... Where’d I put that bottle? You’ll stay with me, won’t you, Gerry? Let me have another drink, and then we’ll look at the painting. I want to sketch your face, and maybe I can get it right — you’ll stick around, honey?”

  I looked down the hall, saw the shower-room attendant creaking toward me with the mop over his shoulder. I took my ear away from the door and Owen’s vocal pangs of misery and went upstairs, wondering why Maxine’s girl should hate Macy Barr.

  There was no point in bothering with Gerry any longer; I didn’t want to stay sidetracked. I had to find out who was so persistently trying to knock me off. And I knew just the man to ask about it, although all I had to go on was a sketchy description and a pale blue hat with a light-colored band.

  It wouldn’t be eas
y. In six years sources of information that I had once depended upon would be dried up. There would be new contacts, new people to see. But at least I had an idea where to start.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Rendezvous was a charming basement beer hall near the ship channel. It stank of spilled brew, dirty clothing and the elusive scent of rare sin. The rest of the building was a honeycomb of rooms for furtive meetings, the exchange of smuggled goods, the viewing of strange sex acts. I had been there often in my fledgling days with Macy.

  I went down dirty littered steps to a little concrete-paved area that looked like the drunk tank in a jail. There was a man in one corner, huddled away from the touch of sun on the floor. The drain was layered with filth. I stepped over it, holding my breath, went through old-fashioned swinging doors and down two steps to get to The Rendezvous. It hadn’t changed much. They still didn’t believe in lights. The floor was the same buckled linoleum, and the walls were as damp as ever. The customers might have been the same. I didn’t know. I couldn’t see their faces. At The Rendezvous there are few faces, few names to be remembered. They had a jukebox but it wasn’t working. The only sounds were the buzz of a fly, the slow swing of a fan, the broken garble of a man talking to himself in one of the secluded corners.

  A few eyes looked at me as I walked across linoleum hills and sat down at a table. I moved the chair a little so I had the wall at my back. I did it without thinking about it. I had learned that precaution a long time ago in The Rendezvous.

  The bartender saw that I was too well dressed to be on a casual drinking tour. He put a towel over one arm, shuffled around the bar and came suspiciously toward me. His right side seemed frozen. The shoulder was down and he dragged that leg with an effort. He wasn’t old. His face had a square sullen look.

  “What do you want?” he said.

  “Whisky.” I looked around. A woman sitting at a table near the door was combing stringy hair and looking at me expectantly. She had been playing some kind of game with bottle caps when I came in. I let the bartender know I was looking at her.