Shadow Games

by Ed Gorman

  Puckett shrugged. "I did some work for him and got to know him a little bit. And I don't believe that gerbil story at all."

  The man they were discussing was one of the screen's hunkiest hunks. He was also a man whose sex life the gossips never tired of whispering about.

  "All right, then," Cobey said, "did you hear the one about Dirk Fleming? The new guy on Precinct 19?"

  And then they were off. Story followed story; laugh followed laugh. Puckett felt guilty about even listening to tales like these. There was a nastiness to gossip that always started to wear on him—a cruelty that too many people seemed to relish.

  Somewhere in the middle of all this, Veronica suggested that the four of them have dinner the following evening at a restaurant Cobey had wanted to try. Anne accepted without asking Puckett. But what was he going to say? "No, I'd rather not?"

  Puckett was finishing his Diet Pepsi when he looked up and saw a familiar figure in the doorway. Cobey's old friend and enemy—and now director—Richard Boyle.

  "There's an interviewer here from the Trib, Cobey," he said. "Wants to do a piece on the show. You want me to handle it alone?"

  Cobey smiled at the other man. But it was an icy smile. "Unless you plan to stab me in the back."

  Boyle had the dark good looks of a 1940's leading man. His own smile was just as thin and empty as Cobey's. He wore a green suede car coat, white shirt and black trousers. His curly hair was fashionably mussed. "I've got a vested interest in this show, Cobey, remember? I'm the director."

  And with that, he was gone.

  When the doorway was empty again, Cobey looked at Puckett and said, "We've basically hated each other since his acting days, Boyle and I."

  Puckett wanted to ask him why he'd hire a director he hated, but decided it wouldn't be polite.

  "Well, now," Anne said, obviously sensing the mood in the room. "We were planning dinner for tomorrow night, I believe."

  "That's perfect," Veronica said. "The theater is dark tomorrow night."

  They finished making their plans, when and where.

  Puckett and Anne stood up. There were handshakes and hugs and a promise from Anne that she'd call Cobey tomorrow to set up an appointment. And a promise right back that he'd be glad to hear from her and would consult his schedule before she called. Veronica had sweet little hugs for both Anne and Puckett and, in return, they had sweet little hugs for her, too.

  "I'm really looking forward to tomorrow night," Veronica said.

  Then they were gone, Puckett and Anne, out into the spring night, the theater long darkened, the streets empty. They found a cab stand around the corner.

  As they were approaching a Yellow taxi, Anne said, "I really got the sense that Cobey and Boyle hated each other, didn't you?"

  Puckett smiled. "I take it that's one of the first questions you're going to ask Cobey. About Boyle, I mean."

  She laughed. "Absolutely."

  2

  An hour-and-a-half later, they were in Puckett's bed. She was reading a collection of Joan Didion's essays, he was going through a stack of old magazines she'd brought over at his request, magazines that contained a lot of her early material, when she had to write so much that she used pen names: Mary Swanwick, Evelyn Day, Phoebe Case, Serena Davidson.

  "This is really great stuff," Puckett said every few pages. "Especially the piece on rip-off acting schools in Hollywood. I don't imagine that made you a lot of friends."

  "Well, when you get done reading them all, tell me which three you like best. My agent said I should only put three of the early pieces in there—the rest of the book will be more current articles."

  He told her which three he liked best. At least so far.

  They went back to reading.

  After a time, she said, "I'm feeling pretty comfortable tonight. How about you?"

  He looked over at her. "Feeling not only comfortable, but very peaceful. And nice."

  "You want to try making love?"

  "I suppose you could talk me into it."

  So she talked him into it.

  Chapter Five

  I

  The following evening, just before seven o'clock, Detective Cozzens, trying to forget that his wife was out with Robert again, entered a nightclub called "The Spandau Ballet." It was one of those places where you found a lot of young doctors and young lawyers, and splendid young women eager to marry same.

  On his way in, Cozzens watched two very long-legged young women in sparkling mini-dresses hold coats over their heads and run the quarter block to the front door of the place, splashing and laughing as they ran through the slanting rain that banged off car roofs, turned gutters into rushing overflows, and soaked the few patches of city grass you found here and there.

  Cozzens got out, pulled up the collar of his Mike Hammer—the name one of the homicide wags had given Cozzens' classic trench coat—and then strolled to the front of the place. His fedora—if he was going to catch hell for his trench coat, why not catch a lot of hell and wear a fedora, too?—was perfect for rain; the stuff just rolled off the snap-brim edge of the thing.

  The nightclub was an oasis of light and noise in the vast gloom. The rain gave a watercolor cast to the purple neon sign atop the front door, and bounced like silver beads off the sidewalk. Even without the door open, Cozzens could smell cigarette smoke and human heat. Even out here, the noise of the dance music was deafening.

  He went inside, and immediately felt like a spy from another species. Not only was everybody younger, everybody was also better looking, men and women alike, better poised and infinitely more self-absorbed, which was a great defensive posture for pushing on through life.

  "Help you?" asked the bouncer. He resembled a Bears fullback of several seasons ago, the nose smashed in a cigarette ad sort of way, the Armani double-breasted suit that somehow only made his hulking shoulders and wide, white fists all the more menacing.

  Cozzens showed him his badge.

  The bouncer simply nodded, seeming neither impressed nor intimidated.

  Cozzens showed him the photo of Beth Swallows which he'd taken from the apartment. He had spent most of the day interviewing people in the apartment house where the Swallows girl had lived. One of the tenants had told him that Beth sometimes came here.

  "Hey," he said. "Beth."

  "Right. Know her?"

  "Know her real good." Then he grinned. "Not that way. I mean, she's a nice chick."

  "In here a lot?"

  "Yeah. A lot."

  They were both shouting over the din of the music. The lobby area was small and carpeted and featured paintings of record stars painted in garish, stylized tones. There was a hat check window where a skinny girl with pink hair and cocaine-dead eyes watched Cozzens with what appeared to be both interest and fear—must have seen him flash the metal—and a small alcove that led to the restrooms. Two very slick young men were just emerging from MEN's, both of them giving out with little marijuana coughs as they walked toward the dance floor.

  "Anybody here know her especially well?"

  "Marcie."

  "She here right now?"

  The bouncer nodded. "Oh, by the way, I'm his brother Bob. Mike was the fullback. That's why people always stare at me." He touched a massive finger to his nose. "We even got our noses busted the same way." He laughed. "Our old man's fist." Then he started away, throwing, "Be right back," over his shoulder.

  Cozzens could only catch glimpses of the people on the dance floor. The strobe light never showed you more than flashes of arms or legs, breasts or hips. As he stood watching, he felt again that he was a spy from some other species. His species was too old and too chunky and too inhibited to ever dance around that way, or break the drug laws so casually, or risk AIDS by constantly picking up new lovers.

  No, his species was better at going home alone and eating cheese sandwiches and catching the tail end of a venerable John Wayne movie and then lying awake all night wondering what love words that slick sonofabitch was wh
ispering to the not-yet-ex-wife at that very moment...

  "This is Marcie."

  She had one of those black, ersatz-Bunny costumes on, with the fishnet stockings and the low-cut front and the high-cut crotch that could have gotten you arrested as recently as 1958.

  "Hi, Marcie. My name's Cozzens."

  "It's about Beth?"

  "Right."

  "God, something happened, didn't it?"

  "Is there somewhere we could talk?"

  "You didn't answer my question."

  She had a pleasant if not pretty face, one already a little too fleshy at thirty or so, and very frightened brown eyes. She had a sullen, nervous and overmuch mouth.

  "Is there somewhere we could talk in private?"

  Marcie looked at the bouncer.

  "Brad's gone," the bouncer said. "Use his office."

  Marcie led the way in.

  The office continued the shadowy motif of the nightclub itself. A single lamp on the corner of the oak desk lit the small, box-like room. There were two filing cabinets that matched the desk, a leather couch and matching armchair, and enough posters of the same semi-nude famous model to enshrine the lady.

  "No other lamp in here?"

  "He likes it dark. He—he brings girls back here."

  "I see."

  "He isn't married or anything," Marcie said. "I mean, it's all right."

  He sat on the edge of the clean and orderly desk and she sat on the edge of the leather armchair. She had very nice legs and small hands that were folded almost prayerfully on the tops of her knees.

  "Marcie, I don't know your last name."

  "She's dead, isn't she?"

  "Now you're the one not answering the question."

  "Tolbert. Marcie Tolbert. She's dead, isn't she?"

  "Yes."

  "Oh, God."

  He waited a moment before he spoke again. He felt odd in a room this dark, as if he were a child playing hide-and-go-seek or something.

  "Somebody murdered her."

  "God." Then, "Will you tell me about it?"

  "I'm not sure you'll want to know."

  "She was my best friend."

  He sighed. "All right." And then told her. He didn't tell her all of it, and he didn't tell it in any detail, but she did get the part about Beth's head being in the refrigerator.

  "Is this a joke?" she said, angry.

  "No joke."

  "Who the fuck would do something like that?"

  "A very sick person."

  "Jesus." Still angry. "I don't fucking believe it. And I'm not going to apologize for using the 'F' word, either."

  Not going to apologize for using the "F" word. He'd always remember that.

  "Was she depressed lately?"

  "Kind of, I guess."

  "Do you know why?"

  She shrugged with her nice, skinny shoulders. "She was having some trouble with her boyfriend."

  "What kind of trouble?"

  "You know, the usual. He wasn't in a place where he could really make a commitment and she wanted to start seeing other people—she really got hurt when she was in college and she didn't want to set herself up for that again—so she felt she could protect herself if she could keep dating."

  "So she dated other people."

  "Oh, once in a while; but you know how that goes."

  "Tell me."

  "Well, you know, you go out with them, but even if they're nice looking and a lot of fun, your mind isn't really there."

  "I see." And he did see. He'd had several dates just like that himself lately. The good Dr. Sondegard had recommended it.

  "They try very hard to be nice and you try very hard to be nice—but somehow you can't quit thinking about the person you're in love with and so then, eventually, your date starts picking up on this and he gets just as distant as you are—he gets hurt, too—and so the whole night is ruined."

  "Did her boyfriend know that she was dating other people?"

  She nodded. "He followed them."

  "You know that for a fact?"

  "Yes. She saw him. Once, he was following them down the street and she turned around and told him to leave her alone."

  "What did he do?"

  "He threatened to punch out her date."

  "Did he?"

  She shook her head. In the deep shadow of the room, she looked five years younger than she was. He tried not to notice his occasional pass at an erection. Then he realized he should be happy about it. He hadn't thought of having sex in months.

  "No, he finally just walked away."

  "So they argued a lot?"

  "All the time."

  "Did he ever hurt her physically that you know of?"

  "She told me that he slapped her once. And I believed her.

  She wasn't the kind of girl who exaggerated things much."

  "Did she ever try to break the relationship off?"

  "Several times."

  "But it didn't work?"

  "I don't think she really wanted it to end."

  "I see."

  "She—"

  She stopped herself.

  "You were going to say something, Marcie," he probed gently.

  "I don't know that it matters. Not now."

  "I'd appreciate it if you'd tell me."

  She looked up at him. "You're not like a cop at all. You're nice."

  He smiled. "I'll pass that compliment along to my fellow officers."

  But her sense of play was quickly gone. "I'm afraid I'm going to throw up. I can't stop thinking of what you told me about Beth."

  She brought her small hands to her small face and started crying softly.

  He got up and took a clean white handkerchief from his back pocket and gave it to her. He had another clean white handkerchief in his other back pocket. In his line of business, you went through a lot of clean white handkerchiefs.

  Sometimes you felt like using them yourself...

  "Thank you," she said between sobs.

  He let her go.

  He sat on the edge of the desk and looked around and wished again that he hadn't been such a jerk and driven by his old house tonight; and then he sat there and looked around and wished he had a date tonight, even a bad one. Despite her grief, Marcie's presence reminded him of how lonely he was.

  "Thank you," she said when the worst of it was over.

  "You can keep it. Compliments of the City of Chicago."

  She smiled politely and balled the handkerchief up in her small fist.

  "I need to know his name, her boyfriend."

  And then she told him.

  She was the fifth person he'd interviewed today and they'd all told pretty much the same story—very angry, sometimes violent relationship between Beth and her boyfriend—and they'd all used the same name.

  A few minutes later, he walked her out to the front of the place again.

  She looked shaky, and scared.

  He slid his arm around her waist and gave her a little peck on the cheek. He knew that this was highly unprofessional conduct, but at the moment, he didn't give a rat's ass.

  He took one more look at all the pretty people out there on the dance floor.

  Beth Swallows had once been one of them.

  She might be alive today if she hadn't been one of them, if she'd been some other kind of young woman, one disposed to quieter and more lasting pleasures. But there he went being a priest again. He hated that side of him, the stem priest side of him, just as his wife and both his daughters hated it. Who was he to judge anybody?

  Cozzens nodded good night to the bouncer and left the smoke and roar and rage of the nightclub behind, out into the chill, silver rain, his Mike Hammer and his fedora keeping him good and dry as he walked slowly back to his car.

  2

  Puckett and Anne met Cobey and Veronica outside the restaurant. It was a quarter after eight, and the rain was little more than a mist, though the temperature had fallen eight degrees since late afternoon.

  The restauran
t decor reminded Puckett, as it was supposed to, of the bar in Casablanca. Easy to imagine international spies sitting at the various small tables, paying only a modicum of attention to the eight piece orchestra, and never even looking at the dance floor, which was populated by older men in dinner jackets and matrons in pastel-colored organdie gowns. There was even an upright piano—but it was unlikely that the pianist's name was Sam. The man, true to the times, was Japanese.

  Many of the customers even cooperated by smoking cigarettes, which was no doubt bad for their lungs but great for the atmosphere.

  After being seated, served drinks and given time to look over their menus, Anne said, "This is really a nice place." The other three agreed.

  Cobey said, "I picked it because of the food, though. They're supposed to have great steaks."

  "Steak for me, then," Puckett said. "Now I don't have to pore over the menu." He laughed. "That's why I like McDonald's. None of these big decisions."

  Just before the food came, a small woman dressed like a nightclub singer of the forties stood at a microphone in a baby blue spotlight and sang a medley of WWII favorites, including beautiful versions of "I'll Be Seeing You" and "The White Cliffs of Dover." She then did a brief Cole Porter medley and left the floor to hearty applause.

  "She was great." Anne exclaimed.

  "She sure was," Cobey said. Then frowned. "That's one thing you realize when you get out and about."

  Veronica made a face. "What's that? How many pretty girls there are?" She'd tried to make her remark a joke, but there was a nasty edge to it.

  Puckett stared at her briefly. He'd already turned Veronica into a cliché. The beautiful, dutiful girlfriend of a celebrity—long-suffering, accustomed to sharing him with others. But he saw now that he'd been wrong. Veronica was a lot more complicated than he'd first imagined.

  "No," Cobey said. From his tense expression, he'd obviously taken Veronica's remark seriously, too. "I was going to say that when you get out and about, you realize how many talented people there are. And how few of them ever get discovered." He poured Diet Pepsi from the can into his glass and raised the glass in a toast. "We call this 'Alcoholic's Delight' at our AA meetings. So here's an 'Alcoholic's Delight' toast to talent—wherever it is. May it long endure."