Two-Trick Pony (The Drifter Detective Book 8)

by Garnett Elliott

  "What're you talking about? He's got four lines."

  "Of atrocious dialogue. Which you won't even let me rewrite to plug the album."

  "Again with the album." The harried man—who Jack figured as the director—threw up his hands. "This is a movie about a giant lizard, for Christ's sake."

  "It's pure schlock."

  "So is 'Fast Train to Heartbreak.'"

  As the two men bickered, Dix seemed to shrink deeper and deeper into his zebra stripes. Jack felt like he'd intruded on a family fight. He started to edge closer to the stage, but stopped when a feminine figure detached itself from the shadows. Something familiar about the way she moved …

  He froze. It was Siti. The Kliegs cast her face in partial silhouette, but he could make out her eyes. She was staring right at him. He told himself to step back, look away, do something … but then she was moving past, her gaze sliding over him.

  His disguise must've worked. Disappointment mingled with relief. Jesus, they'd tried to kill each other three years earlier. You'd think he'd stick out in her memory a little more.

  She mounted the stage, ignoring Kind and the director. Dix wobbled over to embrace her. She patted his back, more like a mother than a lover. That was her M.O., Jack recalled. The whole process of humiliation and rescue had a scripted quality, as if—

  "Look out!"

  Shouts echoed through the hangar, shattering the little scene. He snapped his attention back to Kind, but the sounds weren't coming from there. Shouts became cries for help, frantic. Jack raced for the source, along with a general stampede of stagehands and technicians.

  On the other side of the hangar he saw what the fuss was about: the Gila monster hung from the trainer's hand, its jaws clamped tight. The lizard's bogus fin waggled as the man flailed.

  "Don't kill it!"

  "The bite's deadly poison. Someone call a doctor—"

  "You're just making it madder, moving around like that."

  Jack rushed to the buffet. He snatched up a pot of hotdogs floating in lukewarm water and brought it back. Without prompting, the trainer thrust his afflicted hand inside. The Gila monster let go rather than drown, scrabbling to stay afloat.

  "Out of the way." Authoritative hands shoved Jack aside. He turned to see Kind, inspecting the trainer's angry red wound. "Somebody give me their shoelaces. He needs a tourniquet."

  Several people stooped to comply. An older stagehand reached into the pot and grabbed the Gila monster with a rattlesnake grip, by the back of the head. Someone else hurried off to get a cage.

  "I told 'em just to paint an iguana," said the director, appearing besides Kind. "But no, we had to go for authenticity."

  Conspicuous, Jack began to creep backwards, but not before the director glanced at him. "I'd thank you, buddy, if I knew what the hell you were doing on my set."

  "Just an extra, sir."

  Kind looked up from his work, eyes widening for a moment. Recognition?

  "Get out of here, then," the director said. "We're doing an exterior shot for the crowd scene."

  Jack didn't wait to be shooed.

  * * *

  He mentally prepared his report on the drive back to the office. Not a bad day's work. From his desk, he called Tom Reiss, who suggested they meet for an early dinner. Jack rattled off several dining establishments downtown. Tom chose a cafeteria, the selection hinting at the state of his finances. "You certainly work fast," he said, over a bowl of buttered peas. "If you're trying to salvage your profession's reputation, you're doing a good job."

  The three of them hunkered close like conspirators; Jack, Tom, and Agnes, speaking under the din of clattering trays. Agnes sat with her palms pressed flat against the table, ignoring her dish of lemon Jell-O.

  "The moustache is a nice touch," she told Jack. "It makes you look Continental."

  "Anything for a client. I had to do it on the chance I'd bump into Siti, and I did." He gave them an abridged account of the day's events, including his retreat from Loftwood Studios.

  Agnes's face lit. "You mean Dix is making an album? That's wonderful news. He hasn't recorded any material in years. When Kind took over as business manager I thought he was trying to loot the estate, not restore his career."

  "Dix has attempted a comeback before," Tom said, not looking nearly as pleased. "It didn't go over well."

  "Maybe because you were at the helm."

  "Agnes …"

  Jack set the empty pill bottle down between them with a clack. "I found this, and a bunch more like it, scattered around Dix's bedroom. Dr. Kind prescribed them."

  They both took turns peering at the label. "'Restoranol?'" Agnes said. "I've never heard of it."

  "Neither had I. Did Dix ever take anything for his melancholia?"

  Tom nodded. "Stimulants. They helped to keep his weight down, too."

  "Restoranol is a sugar pill. Doctors give them to nervous old ladies."

  "Why would Kind prescribe those?"

  "Don't know. He let his license lapse earlier this year, for some reason. Maybe sugar pills are the only thing he can give."

  But Agnes was shaking her head, smiling at Jack and Tom like they were a pair of congenital idiots. "What difference does it make? Don't you see? Dix needs to work, and if the Doctor has gotten him a recording contract, I don't think we should interfere."

  "Why are you defending Kind all of a sudden?" Tom said. "You think Dix will start paying alimony again if he's got a hit record?"

  She made a poke at her Jell-O. "He might."

  "And what about Siti? Is she off the hook, too? Jack told you she's a murderer."

  "I don't have to approve of everything Dix does. Lord knows I didn't when I was married to him. And though I don't feel that … dancer is a good influence, his personal life is none of my business."

  "It was five minutes ago. We're talking to a professional snoop here, for God's sakes."

  Jack cleared his throat. "For what it's worth, I got the impression something screwy's going on. But I've done all the digging a hundred bucks is going to buy. If you want to pursue this further, I'll need more incentive."

  A pause. "That means money."

  Agnes pushed herself up from the table. "I can only speak for myself," she said, glancing at Tom, "but your news has put Dix's situation in an entirely different light. I'm feeling far more relieved. The thing to do now, for me, is digest this information at length. If I reach the conclusion your services are still required, I'll be in touch."

  She gave Tom another look, unreadable, and marched away from the table.

  "What the hell just happened?" Tom said.

  "She smells money."

  "It won't work. Whatever Kind's planning, it can't be enough to resurrect Dix's career. Believe me, I've tried. It'd take a miracle to put him back on the charts. He's lost his spark."

  "I guess Dix doesn't know that."

  Tom scraped his chair back. "I better go talk to her. Once we've squared things, I'll contact you."

  "Make it soon. Like I said, I've got a lot of irons in the fire right now."

  He let the lie hang. Tom gave him a pained smile before he made his exit, leaving Jack with a cooling plate of roast beef au jus and gelatin cubes going droopy at the edges.

  * * *

  Tuesday morning, Jack tried to keep his head up when he stepped into the office. Leslie sat perched on the edge of her chair, alert, a cup of coffee at the ready and the Morning News crosswords nowhere in sight. "Any calls?" he said.

  "Not yet. You got more special work for me to do today? It was getting interesting."

  "We'll see."

  He crossed the threshold to the inner office. His empty desk seemed to loom. Jesus, he was already getting that suffocating feeling, and he hadn't settled his ass in the chair yet.

  Don't be ridiculous. Tom will call.

  And in the meantime?

  Paperclip chains. Thumb-twiddling. Staring out the window at pedestrian traffic, contemplating a whiskey lunch, followed
by a nap, then a leisurely rehashing of every misstep, every bad decision that had led him to this sorry …

  He turned and walked back out. Grabbed the Stetson off the rack.

  "Where are you going?" Leslie said.

  "Work."

  * * *

  Something had been nagging him since he'd spotted Siti at the club. The previous night, sleeping fitfully in his too-soft bed, the question solidified. Did the Dallas Mob have anything to do with this Dix business? He drove north out of downtown and into a newer district. The architecture here was cold; steel and glass, designed to intimidate. A business park sprawled just off the freeway exit. He nosed past ranks of gleaming sedans towards a white building with a saddle-shaped roof. Burnished metal letters read DONNER-PHELPS CONSOLIDATED on a sign out front. All the good parking spaces had names stenciled on them, so he settled for a remote spot shaded by a pair of oaks.

  The walk across the parking lot turned into a hike. He told himself he needed it, after his experience on the stairwell. Automatic doors slid back to reveal the waiting area, a cavern of polished concrete and bright plastic panels. Electric typewriters whirred over muzak.

  "Can I help you, sir?"

  A flawless brunette sat behind a glass-topped table. Her teeth had the same buffed gleam as the rest of the décor.

  "I'm here to see Mr. Blackburn," he said, trying to sound casual. "I don't have an appointment."

  Only the faintest lines showed at the corners of her mouth. "I'm not sure …"

  "Tell him I'm a friend of Bunny Ziegler's." He slid his business card across the desk.

  At mention of the name her movements became stiff. She leaned forward and whispered into an intercom, dazzling him with a vale of cleavage.

  "Mr. Blackburn will see you. Frist corridor, third door on the right."

  He tipped his hat, wondering how much harder this would've been if he wasn't wearing a tailored suit. In the old days he wouldn't have even tried entering a place like this. Not through the front door, anyway.

  Several paces down the corridor he spotted security. A linebacker stuffed into a gray uniform, leaning against the wall. He wore a Sam Browne belt with a six-inch Colt Python jutting from the holster. Jack gave him a nod and the goon returned a sleepy-eyed grin.

  Blackburn's office had his name across the door, without any title. The plastic-paneled space beyond seemed modest after the reception area, but very bright, with a floor to ceiling window admitting late morning sunshine. Blackburn himself came hustling around the desk to pump Jack's hand. Like most mobsters he'd known he was a small, unassuming guy, friendly as a Shriner.

  "Good to meet you, Laramie. Private eye, huh? We've certainly had a lot of those on the payroll. Grab a seat." After Jack had done so he added: "Shame about what happened to Bunny."

  "Yeah, I've heard those Mexican prisons are rough."

  "Wouldn't know myself. Can I ask how you and him met?"

  "We worked together on a couple projects." Jack was careful not to call them cons. "Him and his girlfriend. A gal who used to dance under the handle Rosie Tokyo. It's her I came to see you about, actually."

  "Ah, yes. You mean Siti Berger." He pronounced the last name ber-jehr. "What about her?"

  "I've got another project in mind, thought she might be a good fit. Is she still with your firm?"

  Blackburn shook his head. "Siti cut out after Bunny was pinched in Mexico. She'd had some legal trouble before that, with a job in Kilgore. Shame, really. Very talented. She's French Malaysian, you know."

  "I think she pointed that out once. Do you know where I could find her?"

  "Hard to say. I'd heard she'd returned to, ah, fringe work." He pantomimed cracking a whip. "Sadomasochism stuff. It fits her personality, if you know what I mean. Anyways, it's just as well she quit the life."

  "How so?"

  Blackburn gestured at the world outside his giant window. "Our current President has a vendetta for … organized groups. His cronies are already hitting the east coast syndicates. It's just a matter of time before his attention shifts here."

  "This all looks pretty legitimate to me."

  "Exactly. 'Legitimate' is the way everything's moving." Some of the affability left Blackburn's face. "Real estate, Mr. Laramie. It's the new oil. No place for leg-breakers anymore. Not in the traditional sense, that is. No offense to your friends, but people like Bunny and Siti are becoming antiques."

  "No offense taken, Mr. Blackburn." Jack stood up. "And I think I've occupied enough of your valuable time. I appreciate it."

  "My pleasure. See to it you don't become an antique, too. And if you've got any money lying around you want to invest, give me a ring. We have a couple development projects in the Gulf that'll double your return, at least."

  "I just might do that."

  Jack gave the Sam Browne heavy a wave on his way out. It wasn't until he was back in the Biarritz, glancing at the rear-view mirror, that he noticed the sheen of cold sweat on his face.

  * * *

  He didn't go back to the office. He couldn't face it. Blackburn's comment about "antiques" had stung. A couple months earlier he'd read an article in Popular Mechanics claiming electronic surveillance was taking over the detective business. Wire-tapping, bugs, shotgun microphones. Subjects he knew nothing about. Instead of heading downtown, he drove out to a rented garage off Highland Park. The little clapboard building set him back a measly twenty a month. He parked in the alley and entered through a side door.

  Light from a single dirty window revealed two bulky shapes, covered with oil-spotted tarps. He hesitated for a moment, like he always did when he came here. What was the point in reliving the past? He'd never considered himself the nostalgic type before.

  Yet here he was.

  He slid back the first tarp, revealing an old, primer-gray hood. Desiccated bugs still spotted the grill. A tug, and the DeSoto stood revealed in all her pre-war glory. Not so much a car as a whirlpool that had sucked away cash faster than he could earn it, breaking down and stranding him at the mercy of Podunk mechanics.

  He opened the door. His old thermos lay on the floorboards. Nothing else, except worn upholstery and memories.

  As soon as he slipped behind the wheel, the traffic sounds outside the garage ceased.

  He thought to feel the throb of the DeSoto's engine. Imagined sunlight came spearing through the windshield, making him squint.

  His mind's eye conjured a Texas landscape and sent it rolling past the cab; a string of little towns with names like Hackberry and Muleshoe and Buele's Corner, intimate as old girlfriends. Next came the big cities, their silhouettes rising from the dusty plain like Biblical leviathans, promising wickedness. Oil fields, and cattle, the pinewoods of East Texas, the Gulf's gaping blue.

  Motion. Always motion.

  And then the scenery stopped. The pretend sun disappeared just as the street-noises from Highland Park came seeping back in, and he was just a paunchy guy in a dead car, approaching the bleakness of middle age.

  "This," he said aloud, "is what you get for staying put."

  * * *

  When he returned to the office an hour later, Leslie was gone and her desk empty. Not empty like she'd stepped out to get a Coke or flirt with Pablo, but empty. A single sheet of typing paper had been left on the chair. He read the first couple lines before crumpling the letter. Apparently, the boredom had gotten to her, too.

  The phone rang.

  He'd never heard it ring in the office before, and the unfamiliarity startled him. Tom Reiss, probably, or Leslie coming to her senses. He snatched up the receiver.

  "Is this Laramie Investigations?" said a male voice. It wasn't Tom's. "I'm trying to get ahold of Jack Laramie."

  "You got him."

  "Can you tell me your fees?"

  He looked at the receiver in disbelief. Could this be an actual living, breathing, paying client? "It would help if I knew what your problem was."

  "Infidelity."

  "Ah."

  "I'm
not comfortable talking about it over the phone."

  "Most people aren't. Why don't you drop by my office?"

  "Not so comfortable with that, either. Could I meet you somewhere? Sort of informally?"

  He started to object, but reminded himself about beggars and choosers. With the Dix Stricklin case in hiatus, he'd need something to do. "You know any place close to downtown?"

  "How about the Majestic?"

  "That's perfect. It's almost kitty-corner."

  "Say eight o'clock?"

  Jack checked his watch. "Look for a tall guy with a, ah, blond moustache. I'll be wearing an arrowhead bolo. You?"

  "I'll spot you, Mr. Laramie. Don't worry."

  His unknown client hung up.

  * * *

  The Majestic was still showing North by Northwest. Jack had seen it months earlier, mostly because the theater boasted first-rate air conditioning. He paced the lobby, smoking. The Coming Attractions section featured a big poster of Charlton Heston, glaring out over the rim of a chariot. Some period piece. He liked period pieces, but the flick wasn't opening until mid-November. A sparse weeknight crowd milled. He tried to peg his cuckold and settled for a nervous guy with a soft chin, hovering near the ladies' room. Jack walked in front of him twice without a response.

  The lobby's neon-rimmed clock read ten minutes after eight. So much for punctuality. He went over to concessions and bought a bag of popcorn, partly because he was hungry, and partly because the girl behind the counter wore a tight majorette's uniform. After he'd gotten an eyeful he wandered back to where the nervous man stood.

  "Popcorn?" he said, extending the bag.

  The man just stared, his lips slightly curled. A nervous-looking woman came out of the

  ladies' room and linked arms with him. They headed for the exit.

  Something hard poked between Jack's third and fourth ribs. "Where's your Colt?" said Siti's voice.

  She'd appeared beside him, quiet as smoke. Must've crept out of the ladies' room. Her face was expressionless, almost serene beneath a red headscarf. She wore a black blouse with a cameo brooch. A matching black purse hid the all-too-familiar .22 pistol.