Mary, Mary, Shut the Door

by Benjamin M. Schutz

  “You’re lucky we found you. You’d never have gotten out of that car by yourself. We needed a winch to get the Saguaro off you, then we had to use metal cutters to pry you out. Another day and you’d have been as dead as Marshall.”

  The cop got up to leave, then he turned back towards me.

  “You see, that’s the only reason I’m not arresting you. You couldn’t have killed Marshall, and you wouldn’t have staged that as an accident because nobody called us about you. You’d have died for sure. So I’m ignoring all the captain’s stuff about you harassing Marshall, or the amazing coincidence of two accidents on that road at the same time. No evidence of foul play, but lots of stupidity, so we’re gonna close it up as death by misadventure, unless you’ve got something you want to tell me?”

  “No, I know justice when I see it.”

  The cop nodded goodbye and left. The door was swinging closed when Kiki pushed through.

  She sat down in the chair, threw one leg over the other and clasped her hands around her knees. Her sandaled foot tapped away to silent music. “How are you doing?”

  “I guess I’m okay. I’ve got this drip in me, but nothing seems to be broken.”

  “That’s what the doctor said. You were pinned but not crushed. He thinks you can leave tomorrow.”

  “That’s good. I don’t know how I’ll pay this bill, so the sooner I get out of here the better.”

  Her sunglasses were pushed up into her hair and she nodded in agreement.

  “Oh, I’ve got your suitcase and your plane ticket. They gave me your belongings when they cut your clothes off.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Yeah, they weren’t going to at first, but I told them you had been staying with me. Otherwise they were going to hold onto everything, and I figured you wouldn’t want a policeman holding your ticket out of here, so I told him that and they gave it to me. I hope that was okay.”

  Her brow wrinkled like a raised blind.

  “Yeah, that was good thinking.”

  “Well I’ll go get your stuff.”

  “Kiki, thanks for coming. How will you get back to the ship?”

  “I’ve got the company’s jeep. I told the cruise director we were old friends, so he let me stay behind to make sure you were okay. I promised him I’d catch up at the next port of call.”

  “Where is that?”

  “We’re headed around Baja back to Ensenada. I’ll probably get there before the ship does.”

  “So you wouldn’t have to leave right away?”

  “No, I wouldn’t have to.”

  “You know if you were here tomorrow, you could have company for that trip back.”

  “Really? What would I want with company?”

  “I don’t know. I hear your compass doesn’t work so well. A girl could get lost like that.”

  “Oh? And you don’t get lost?”

  “Oh, I get lost too. That’s why you should have me along. That’s how I learned what it takes to get found.”

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: I’d like to thank the following people for the gracious donation of their expertise. Any errors are entirely my responsibility. Chanda Kinsey, defense attorney; Johnny Ringo of Carefree Jeep Tours; Paula Edgin, JoAnne Reiss and Arllys Filmer-Ennett, concierges at The Boulders; Sherry Mehalic of Travel Partners; and Rhoda K. Schutz.

  The Black Eyed Blonde

  I woke up with my nose in the newsprint and a telephone inside my head. I shook my head and the phone fell out onto my desk. My hand spider walked over to it, grabbed it around the throat, and silenced it.

  “Hello,” she said. Her voice fluttered all through both of those syllables.

  When I didn’t answer, she tried again. “Hello, Mr. Barlow, are you there?”

  I checked the inside of my jacket to be sure and said, “Yes, this is Max Barlow.”

  “Oh, thank goodness, Mr. Barlow. My name is Angela DiLivio. My husband is Bruno DiLivio. Do you know him?”

  I knew Bruno DiLivio. He was a gambler out of Vegas. He’d taken over Benny Voltaire’s place. I wasn’t sure how much more I wanted to know.

  “Yes, I know him.”

  “I’d like you to follow him, Mr. Barlow. I think he’s seeing another woman. If he is, I want you to get pictures.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. DiLivio, but I don’t do divorce work.”

  “But Mr. Thornton said you were the best. You were the man I should talk to.”

  Good old Ray Thornton, throwing some work my way. Ever since he’d hooked up with Adrian Jones, he’d become Santa Claus to the rest of us working stiffs. And here it wasn’t even November.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. DiLivio. Ray has me mixed up with another Max Barlow. Like I said, I don’t do divorce work.”

  “Well, do you know where this other Max Barlow is?”

  “No, Mrs. DiLivio, I haven’t a clue.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to have wasted your time, Mr. Barlow, if that’s even your name.” She replaced the receiver indelicately.

  “No problem at all,” I said to myself.

  I rubbed my eyes and stared at the top of my desk. So this was as far as I’d gotten. I was just going to stop by and type up my notes before I went home. Guess I didn’t make it. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my notebook and the novel I had been reading. Fast One, by a guy named Paul Cain. Rumor had it that Cain was a screenwriter in town whose real name was Ruric. Rumor had it that even Ruric wasn’t his real name. Maybe it was Barlow.

  I flipped open my notebook. I’d spent all night watching a cop as a favor for a friend of mine from the D.A.’s office. Seems that the D.A. wasn’t happy with the police investigation of a recent murder. They’d asked me to shadow the cop because he wouldn’t know my face. He’d spent a long time over dinner with the decidedly ungrieving widow at Musso and Frank’s before dropping her off at her house. I spent the next two hours following him as he drove aimlessly through our host, the City of Angels.

  I went over to the sink in the corner, ran some water, and splashed it on my face. Toweling dry, I looked at the face in the mirror. We looked like the same guy, but we weren’t. I did know where that other Max Barlow had gone. He’d disappeared soon after that visit from Delano Stiles.

  I went back to my desk, spun the chair around so it faced east, and looked out over Cahuenga Boulevard. I closed my eyes and it was spring again. The late afternoon sunlight was streaming in so heavily it looked pooled, like butter, on the floor. And Delano Stiles was telling me about his wife.

  He’d marched right into my office, sat down, leaned forward, and told me, “I need you to find my wife, Mr. Barlow.”

  I looked up from a chess diagram I had been studying and asked, “And why is that?”

  “Because she’s gone. She’s run away, Mr. Barlow, and she’s taken my son with her.”

  I took a moment to see what she was running away from. He was tall, slim, and well dressed in a pin-striped suit. His black hair was swept back and had a touch of gray at the temples. His strong, even features were marred by the presence of a ridiculous, pencil-thin moustache.

  “Let’s back up a step,” I said. “What’s your name, your wife’s, and your son’s?”

  “I’m Delano Stiles.” He stopped to take a deep breath. He sounded like he’d run up all six flights of stairs to my office. “My wife is Monica and our son’s name is Brandon. He’s five years old.”

  “How long has your wife been missing, Mr. Stiles?”

  “A couple of hours, maybe. I got a call from a car dealer over on Wilcox. He said that she had come in and tried to sell her car. When he found out that the car was in my name he told her she couldn’t sell it. He was calling me when she grabbed some suitcases out of the car and ran out of the showroom, dragging Brandon with her. As soon as I got the message, I drove right over and questioned the man. Then I went looking for them myself. But frankly, Mr. Barlow, I’m not the kind of man who can make people answer my questions. So I looked up detectives in the phone book, saw that your
office was nearby, and came right over to see if I could retain your services.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Stiles, but I haven’t any experience in divorce work. My background has been in insurance and criminal investigations.”

  “This isn’t really a divorce case, Mr. Barlow. It’s Brandon I want back, not my wife. He’s only five, Mr. Barlow, just a little boy. It must be terrifying for him to be dragged all over strange parts of this city by a woman who’s no longer thinking clearly.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because there’s no reason for her to do something like this.”

  “Has she ever taken it on the lam before?”

  “No. She’s never done anything like this before. It’s so … so impulsive.”

  Nothing Stiles had said so far had overcome my aversion to divorce work. Besides that, I still had seven bucks in the bank.

  “I don’t know, Mr. Stiles. Domestic stuff really isn’t my line.”

  That’s because it always seemed like legitimized blackmail. Two people trying to dig up as much dirt as possible so they could hold each other’s noses in it until one of them cried, “Enough!” I was not about to be anyone’s spade. But then again, maybe this one was different. I waited to find out.

  “Are you married, Mr. Barlow?”

  “No.”

  “Any children?”

  “No.”

  “Then you can’t know what it’s like to lose one, can you? I love my son, Mr. Barlow. I need him with me. I don’t want Monica back. I’ll offer her a fair settlement. You won’t have to be peeping at keyholes, I assure you.”

  I thought it over. He just wanted his kid found. I wasn’t being asked to prove that the mother wasn’t fit to walk among decent, god-fearing people, let alone marry or raise one.

  “All right, Mr. Stiles, I’ll take the case. If she’s trying to skip town, she’ll need money. Did she tap the bank accounts?”

  “No, I called the bank before I came over here. The accounts are all in my name anyway.”

  “Does she have any money of her own?”

  “You mean family money? No, her people are farmers, I believe. They’re not even from around here. They’re in Arkansas, Little Rock, I think.”

  “How did you meet her? It doesn’t sound like you two traveled in the same circles.”

  “That’s true. But out here in Hollywood all the circles seem to overlap, don’t you think? Anyway it seems that way to me. Monica was a showgirl at Voltaire’s. That’s where I met her. She wanted to be an actress. I admit I was quite taken with her, Mr. Barlow. She’s a stunning girl. These days I think she was more taken with my connections than with me.”

  As Hollywood marriages went this was no worse than most. It would last as long as her looks and his money made each other feel good. When that didn’t work anymore they’d finally realize that they were strangers, get divorced, and go do the same damn thing again.

  “Has she appeared in any movies? That might make it easier to track her down. People in this town are crazy about identifying actors and actresses. It brightens their days just being in the same city with them.”

  “No, she hasn’t been in any pictures. Monica’s dreams exceed her talents. Even my intercessions on her behalf can’t change that. She seems to blame me for her failure. I tried to provide for her every need and want, and this is how she repays me.”

  Stiles was wandering off into his own melancholy reverie. I retrieved him with a question. “Does your wife have any friends she might turn to at a time like this?”

  “No. Monica was, as they say, ‘right off the bus,’ when I met her at Voltaire’s. We married shortly thereafter. She never made any effort to get along with my friends. She just stayed at home and doted on Brandon.”

  I pulled out my notebook, flipped it open, and prepared to write. “What things did she take with her?”

  “I asked the maid to check the house when I got the call about the car. She said that Monica took two suitcases filled with clothes for her and Brandon, some makeup, her jewelry, Brandon’s teddy bear, and his favorite blanket.”

  “What were she and Brandon wearing?”

  “Roxana, that’s our maid, says she was wearing a teal blue skirt and a cream-colored silk blouse. Brandon had on white knee-high socks, khaki shorts, and a green and white striped shirt.”

  “Good. Do you have a picture of either of them?”

  “Yes, I do.” He pulled out his wallet, slid the photo out, and handed it to me.

  Monica Stiles was sitting in a chair with her arms around her son. He was leaning back against her so that their cheeks touched. Brandon was a little towhead with deep dimples and the assured smile of a well-loved child.

  A billowing tangle of blonde hair framed his mother’s face. I studied that face. A broad, high forehead tapered past prominent cheekbones to a small square chin. Her full upper lip was wide and downswept. She would smile and pout magnificently. Her eyes were hidden behind large sunglasses.

  “What color are your wife’s eyes?”

  “Black.”

  I looked at him.

  “Yes, black. Monica’s coloring is very unusual. She’s a natural blonde, too.”

  “I’ll need to take this with me,” I said, tapping the picture.

  “If you must. Please don’t lose it, Mr. Barlow.”

  “I’ll be very careful with it. Now what was the name of the car dealer who called you?”

  “The man’s name was Artie Schumacher. He’s the general manager at Peabody Motors. They’re on Wilcox, between Sunset and Hollywood.”

  “Okay. Where can I reach you today if I find your wife and son?”

  “I’ll be at my office the rest of the day. It’s on Rossmore just opposite Paramount Studios.” He gave me the direct line into his office.

  “My fee is twenty dollars a day and expenses. If I don’t find her today, I’d suggest you call Pinkerton’s in Little Rock to catch her at the other end.”

  Stiles opened his wallet and began laying crisp twenties on my desk. “Here’s twenty for your time today and forty against expenses. Please find her for me, Mr. Barlow.”

  “That’s what I’m about to do, Mr. Stiles.”

  He rose and turned to leave. I had one question left to ask but I wasn’t sure I needed to know the answer. With his hand on the doorknob, I decided to ask it anyway.

  “Mr. Stiles, why is your wife in such a hurry to leave town?”

  He turned slowly, and looking down at me, he said, “Mr. Barlow, I assure you that it’s a personal and private matter between my wife and me. I’m sure you can respect that.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  I watched Stiles pull the office door closed behind him and stared at the bills on my desk. Los Angeles was the wrong town to be poor in. When the hoboes tried to enter, city hall made a fence out of the boys in blue and dared them to climb over it. With things as tough as they were, why would Monica Stiles put herself on the wrong side of money? When I found her, I just might ask her that.

  I stood up, unclipped my holster, and locked my gun in my desk. I wasn’t going to be shooting anybody today. With the money in my wallet, I locked up the office and went to work.

  Peabody Motors was one block west and one south. Schumacher was bald and fat, and judging from the way he rocked on his feet, his shoes hurt, too. He confirmed everything that Stiles had told me.

  I thanked him for his help and walked out of the showroom. On the sidewalk I tried to imagine myself trying to get out of town and standing there with two suitcases and a kid and no money in my pocket. She was a long way from Union Station or the airport. The bus station was only two blocks away, on Vine. Buses were cheaper and left more frequently. If Monica Stiles was still in town at all, she was nearby. That much I was sure of.

  I drifted down Wilcox and crossed Sunset, looking for the places where she might have gotten money. On Santa Monica, I saw a pawnbroker’s gold trident and went inside.

  The man behind
the counter had a loupe in his eye and a bauble in his hand.

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  He put the stone down onto a velvet pillow and looked at me. “Yeah?”

  I took out the picture of Monica and Brandon Stiles. “Has this woman been in this afternoon?”

  He took the picture and studied it. “Not while I’ve been here, and I’d remember. She’s a looker, that one is.”

  “Okay, thanks. Any other pawnshops in this area?”

  “No. We’re the only one up this way. Most of the others are over in Smoketown. What’s the skirt trying to move, anyway?”

  “Jewelry.”

  “Good stuff?” he asked hopefully.

  “Yeah, real good.” I opened my wallet and put a fin on the velvet pillow. I put my card on the bill. “If she comes in, you call me. It’ll be worth your while.”

  He slipped the bill into his shirt pocket and glanced at the card. “Sure thing, Mr. Barlow.”

  “If I’m not there I’ll be at Burt Levin’s Tavern. You know it?”

  “Yeah, the one on Vine, next to the bus station.”

  “That’s right.”

  I left the shop and headed east on Santa Monica to Vine. As far as I could tell, Monica Stiles still had no money. Wearing a silk blouse and stockings she wasn’t going to get much of a response if she tried to panhandle. I didn’t feature her doing a smash-and-grab routine either, not with little Brandon in tow.

  I wandered into the bus station and checked the schedule. The next bus east left at 7:30, two hours from now. I did a slow circuit through the terminal, but they weren’t there. I thought about sitting still for the two hours and letting her come to me, but I still had a couple of moves left to make and the silly idea that I should earn my fee.