Two-Trick Pony (The Drifter Detective Book 8)

by Garnett Elliott

  "This isn't about money," Tom said quickly. "Agnes and I are worried for Dix's well-being. When you told us last night Siti was a murderer, well, that escalated our concern."

  "Do you have any idea why Dix would be here in Dallas?"

  "We think Kind put him up to it. Some kind of play to get the rest of his money."

  Jack found the pocket address book he used to jot down notes. "What's the doctor's first name?"

  "Theodore. He goes by Teddy."

  "And what's he a doctor of, exactly?"

  "I'm not sure. He functions as a sort of psychiatrist to Dix." Tom cleared his throat. "Like I said before, Agnes and I don't have a lot of money. I'm afraid we've come to depend too much on Dix's … charity."

  "How much can you throw my way?"

  "Would fifty dollars be sufficient?"

  Jack closed his eyes. "That won't cover my dry cleaning, Mr. Reiss."

  "A hundred, then? I'm sure once Kind has been exposed and Dix has had a chance to reconcile with us we can pay you more. Much more."

  "Let's call the hundred your retainer." Jack gave him careful directions to his office in the Wilson Building. "Come in on Monday and my secretary will have you fill out some paperwork."

  "When can you get started?"

  "Oh, soonish," Jack said. "I've already got a couple lines in the water, but I could give this case priority."

  "That would be excellent, Mr. Laramie."

  The percolator's red light came on as he hung up. It seemed doubtful Dix would be swayed much by anything he uncovered, but hell, work was work. He needed it more than he needed the money.

  There was a glaring problem, though. Even with a couple extra pounds, Siti would recognize him if he bumped into her. And he'd revealed himself to Kind and the whole entourage last night.

  In the spinner-rack world, this was the part where the detective sent in his partner, or contacted an operative from another agency.

  Or …

  He poured himself a cup and went searching for the phone book. Plenty of beauty parlors in this part of town. If he hurried, he could still make an afternoon appointment.

  * * *

  Monday morning, he showed up five minutes early to the office. Leslie was already at her desk and working The Dallas Morning News crossword puzzle. She bolted upright. "Can I help you, Mr. …?

  Jack started a silent count. One, two, three, four—

  She tilted her head to one side. "Is that you, Mr. Laramie?"

  The beautician had earned her money. Jack now sported a blond crewcut with eyebrows to match. She'd shaved off his sideburns and showed him how to bleach the stubbly moustache he was growing. He wore thick, horn-rimmed cheaters, a black turtleneck with a red flannel shirt, and work boots in place of his usual snakeskins. He'd also ditched his lucky bolo tie, though the omission made him feel naked.

  "It's me, Les. What threw you the most? The glasses?"

  "You look shorter without your cowboy boots. Less … tacky, too. Is there some reason for all this?"

  Jack went into his office and came out with a box of paperwork; leasing agreements for the property. He spread the papers all over Leslie's desk. "Make it look busy, okay? We've got a client arriving any minute now."

  "A client?"

  "Mr. Reiss. Get his contact information and write him a receipt."

  "You mean for money?"

  "That's the general idea behind receipts. Also, I want you to call the Texas licensing board. I need all the information you can get on a Doctor Theodore Kind. Complaints, affiliations, that kind of thing." He waved his hands at her desk. "Macht schnell. I'm off."

  He left her gape-mouthed, before she could ask any more questions.

  * * *

  Morning traffic crawled outside the Wilson Building. His new boots made unfamiliar thuds as he hoofed it for the Adolphus—the twenty-two story hotel was literally around the corner. To think he'd been sitting at his desk for weeks, doing absolutely nothing, when a couple blocks away some scheme involving Dix Stricklin was in the hatching. His cheaters' thick lenses rendered everything flat; the cars, the facades, even the baroque decorations covering the Adolphus. He squinted up at the huge skylight windows on the top floor. A month earlier he'd toyed with the idea of getting a room there, just because he had the money. Now the hotel was a work destination. Well, he knew his way around hotels. Any seasoned P.I. should. He'd even spent a short gig as a house dick once, during a disastrous stopover in Houston.

  He crossed the street and circled around to the back of the building, taking an alley lined with garbage cans. Like any large hotel, the rear section had several service entrances, plus a cement stoop where trucks could unload. Two men in livery were leaning against the stoop, smoking. As Jack approached, one snubbed out his cigarette and went inside, leaving the other to contemplate the morning skyline.

  "Hey there," Jack said, shaking out a Lucky. "Got a light?"

  The man had round, soulful eyes. "Sure, bud." He tore a match from a bright red book.

  Jack struck it using his thumbnail. "You work here?"

  "Unfortunately."

  "Place doesn't look so rough, on the outside."

  "Yeah, well, the upper crust doesn't like to tip." His big eyes narrowed. "You thinking about applying?"

  "Nah." Jack grinned. "I'll level with you. I'm a newsman. Story is, Dix Stricklin's staying here. That true?"

  The man looked away. "I wouldn't know."

  "Don't cooperate with the press, huh? I got a proposition. I give you a sawbuck, you rent me that uniform for half an hour."

  "They'll notice if I'm gone that long."

  "How about I make it a Jackson, then? Think of it as the tip you never got."

  "Even with a uniform you wouldn't get past the chief steward."

  "So how do I avoid him?"

  The man drew a deep breath. "If a celebrity like Stricklin was staying here—and I'm not saying he is, so you can't quote me in your rag—they'd put him in the Governor's Suite, on the top floor. Best way to sneak up there would be the fire stairs."

  "Ah ha." Jack was wincing already, thinking about the climb. "So we got a deal?"

  "Let me see the money."

  Jack showed him. The bill promptly disappeared. "You take longer than forty minutes and I'll turn you in myself."

  "Fair enough."

  "That'll be after I get some bellboys to work you over."

  They swapped clothes behind a dumpster, dressing furtively. Jack slipped on a crimson suit coat. It fit okay, un-buttoned. "Take that door there," the man said, pointing. "Follow the hallway on your left to the stairs. I'll be here when you come back down."

  "Thanks."

  For answer, the man pointed at his watch. The meter was running.

  Jack hurried inside. He glimpsed dark paneling and brass fixtures, an immense ballroom with a ceiling painted to match the sky. Plates clattered in some nearby kitchen. He turned on his heel and took the hallway to a stairwell. It smelled dusty, like no one used it much. Looking up, he felt himself frown. Twenty-one flights. And here he was, wearing someone else's dress loafers that pinched in the toe.

  A forty minute window didn't give him time to dawdle. He started up, his calves protesting almost immediately. His heart was beating a Dixieland tempo by the time he reached the fifth floor. Somewhere past the seventh he stopped counting flights.

  No more whiskey before noon, he told himself. Better lay off the hollandaise, too.

  The loafers were cutting into his ankle when he reached the top. Lungs burning, suit coat sodden, he stumbled out into a richly carpeted hallway. Quiet, up here, and no one else in sight. But he was hardly inconspicuous, breathing like a prizefighter after fifteen rounds. It occurred to him he didn't really have a plan beyond getting into the hotel. Or a room number.

  A little further down the hall he found a service cart with a covered tray. Underneath lay the remains of a rack of lamb. He replaced the cover and started pushing the cart. It made him feel more legi
timate. A cleaning lady limped past, dragging an Electrolux by the hose. She didn't look up.

  The hall widened into a solarium, with overstuffed chairs arranged around the giant window he'd seen from the street. A door of carved oak and gold plate graced the far wall. No number, but it seemed fancy enough for a governor.

  He knocked by banging the cart against the wood. The door gave a little with his second bang, suggesting it was neither locked nor fully closed. Third bang pushed it all the way open.

  "Hello? Room service?"

  No answer.

  The cart made clackety-clack sounds rolling over tiles of gold-veined marble. Beyond the foyer lay a sitting room with enough fancy couches and easy chairs to stock a furniture store. One of the couches had an occupant. He sprawled on his back with a towel draped over his face. When Jack came into the room he stirred a little, but didn't get up.

  Half a dozen empty champagne bottles ringed the couch. Jack started to chuckle, then caught himself. He recognized the top of the bald head poking out from under the towel. Apparently, Percy the Jujutsu Expert couldn't handle his booze.

  He left the cart where it was and cat-footed around the room. Percy seemed content to just lay there, groaning faintly. Jack passed a bathroom. A guest room. The contents of that last made him stop and peer inside for a closer look. Tiles of egg-carton soundproofing covered the walls. A large reel-to-reel rested on the bed, connected to a microphone and a complex looking board of dials, meters, and switches. Dix's signature double bass leaned in the corner.

  So: a recording studio, of sorts. The star hadn't come here just to visit nightclubs.

  He found the master bedroom, next. Papers lay scattered over expensive sheets and throw pillows. The television had a foot-sized hole where someone must have kicked in the screen. Instead of alcohol, empty pill bottles were mixed in with the general mess. He inspected one, but didn't recognize the brand name. It went into his pocket.

  A bound manuscript lay atop the nightstand, with a pair of reading glasses marking a place. He flipped it open, expecting to find sheet music.

  EXT. WILBUR'S ROADHOUSE-NIGHT

  Several jalopies and dragsters are in the parking lot. Light streams from the windows, and rock and roll can be heard over crickets chirping.

  The camera pulls in slow towards the main window. Teenagers are dancing inside.

  INT. WILBUR'S ROADHOUSE

  A BOBBY SOXER in a flared skirt has just finished twirling. CHET pulls her close and the two lock eyes. The camera pans right, past WILBUR, opening a bottle of soda, to the stage, where DIX STRICKLIN is playing the bass. He finishes his number and bows to enthusiastic applause.

  DIX

  Hope you liked that one, hepcats. Up next is a little ditty we call "Grinding Love." Whistles from the crowd. DIX nods to the band behind him and starts in with the next song.

  EXT. ACROSS THE STREET FROM THE PARKING LOT-NIGHT

  Bushes rustle. Close up on the ATOMIC GILA's monstrous head as it peers out at the roadhouse. Music plays faintly in the background, then a chilling STING as the camera zooms on cold reptilian eyes.

  Jack checked the first page. It read: Attack of the Atomic Gila Monster, and below that, SHANTZ PRODUCTIONS. Some kind of goofy movie script. Maybe they were shooting locally. It could explain Dix's presence in Dallas.

  He checked his watch. The allotted forty minutes were almost up. He'd be risking a beating, or at least the ire of a particular hotel employee if he didn't return the clothes soon.

  Back in the sitting room, Percy had stirred enough to take the towel off his face. One filmy eye opened as Jack tried to creep past. Percy cleared his throat with a rattle and muttered something. Jack snapped to attention.

  "Did you call down to the front desk, sir?" he said, solicitous.

  "… tomato juice, and … ice. Lots of ice."

  "I'll get some for you."

  Jack grabbed the cart and pushed it into the foyer, not looking back. He made it out to the hall. The cleaning lady he'd seen before was coming back with a dust mop canted over her shoulder. Jack avoided eye contact. She started to say something as they brushed past, but he kept walking, fighting the impulse to run. A couple minutes later he reached the stairs, and took them two at a time.

  The descent proved much easier.

  * * *

  "That man, Reiss, was here about half an hour ago," Leslie said, when he returned to the office. She showed him the copy of a receipt for one hundred dollars. "And I spoke to the Texas Board of Medicine. Doctor Theodore Kind was licensed as a general practitioner. I say was, because he let his license lapse earlier this year. There weren't any formal complaints." "Switched careers to business manager, I guess."

  "What's this all about?"

  "Just a case." He took the empty pill bottle out of his pocket and set it down on her desk. "Another project. When you go to the Rexall for lunch, I want you to check that with the druggist. Find out what it is."

  "But I was planning to go to Woolworth's."

  "Humor me, okay? I'll be in my office."

  He shut the connecting door. A quick check of the Yellow Pages gave him the number for The Dallas Morning News. "Entertainment desk, please," he told the receptionist.

  Moments later a breathy male voice answered. "This is Mendez."

  "Hello. You don't know me, but I might have a hot tip. Sort of a quid pro quo, if you can tell me something."

  "Shoot."

  "Is the Shantz Production Company filming a movie in Dallas?"

  "Shantz?" The breathy voice made a raspberry. "Everyone knows about that. Strictly drive-in material, over at Loftwood Studios." A pause. "So what's your hot tip?"

  "Never give a sucker an even break."

  He hung up.

  * * *

  A call to Information produced Loftwood's address, on the western outskirts of the city. He eased the gold-trimmed Eldorado from its private parking space and headed out. Not the most inconspicuous vehicle, but the DeSoto with trailer attached never had been, either. He hummed and slapped the dashboard, even as the radio bleated ominous news about Cuba. None of that crap bothered him now. He was working.

  Rolling fields gave way to an industrial park, then back to fields again. He turned off on a dirt road worn by heavy traffic. It ended at an old crop-duster hangar. He checked his Dallas/Fort Worth map, figuring he'd missed something, but no, he'd gotten the roads right, and there was a sea of cars surrounding the building. This must be Loftwood Studios. He'd been expecting something classier.

  He parked next to a catering truck. Ten feet away a pair of burly men were wrestling with a backdrop, crudely painted to depict a desert sunset. He could've sworn he'd seen it in some grade B western before. At a nod between them, both men settled the prop down to rest.

  "Goddamn, but that's a nice Caddy," one of them called to Jack.

  "Thanks. Either of you fellas happen to know if Dix Stricklin's shooting here this morning?"

  The other stagehand took out a bandanna and mopped his face. "Oh, he's someplace. I seen him. You a producer?"

  "Not really …"

  "Don't tell me you're an extra. The crowd scene isn't shooting for another two hours."

  "No way he's an extra," said the first man, still goggling at the Eldorado. "Not with a heap like that."

  Yup, he was definitely going to have get something less conspicuous for work. Jack gave the two men an amiable wave and started towards the hangar, fishing a cigarette out of his coat pocket—but stopped when he saw the SMOKING PROHIBITED signs posted along the building. Parked just out front was a jet black Lincoln that could've belonged to Dix. It looked big enough to hold his whole entourage.

  The hangar's front doors had been chained shut and the windows covered with newspaper, but down one side he found a doorway with a naked lightbulb beside it. NO ENTRANCE WHEN FLASHING a sign said. It wasn't flashing now.

  He let himself in to relative darkness, and the murmur of a dozen conversations. A tall partition cut the h
angar in two. On his side, Klieg lights threw sharp glare against a small set, consisting of a sandbox with legs. Several people were hunched over the box. He stepped closer to glimpse a miniature town with HO scale houses, trees, and toy cars laid out on the sand. Scrabbling over the tiny landscape, dislodging the carefully placed pieces, was an honest-to-God Gila monster. Someone had glued a dorsal fin atop its red beaded back. A slouchy guy, probably the trainer, was trying to coax it along with a bright pellet of food.

  Beyond the sandbox lay a buffet table. Jack's old chowhound instincts kicked in, but the fare turned out to be cheap; boiled hotdogs and baked beans. The production company must be running on a shoestring.

  As he deliberated whether to eat, loud voices spilled over from the other half of the partition. He followed the sound to a second set, larger than the first. A stage. Dix Stricklin commanded center, standing next to a double bass ironically shaped like himself. Bottom-heavy, he'd been stuffed into a zebra striped lounge suit that showed off every curve. Sweat brought on by the Kliegs streaked down his flush face. His failing widow's peak had been redrawn sharply with a grease pencil, making him look like a fat Dracula.

  The angry voices were coming from the edge of the stage, where Dr. Kind, in a plaid cardigan and vest, was arguing with a harried-looking man. "I just want to know why it always has to be 'Grinding Love'?" Kind was saying. "Why can't we use a song from the new album? 'Fast Train to Heartbreak' is peppy enough."

  "Because no one's ever heard of it." The man settled his hands on his hips. "When people pay to see Dix Stricklin in a film, they want the same Dix from Hit Parade."

  "Could we at least give him a robe, then? Cover him up a little? He looks ridiculous."

  "And whose fault is that? Contract said you'd have him down to one-ninety by the time shooting started."

  Dix grimaced. "Ah, fellas? I'm right here."

  "You have no idea the pressure this man's been under," Kind went on, ignoring him. "You'd be stuffing your face, too. Bad enough he has to memorize an entire script—"