by Bill LeFurgy
Jack stared at the pamphlet. “Gunshots. Heard them.”
“Just an automobile backfire. You’re in a real bad way, boy—I can tell because I’ve been there myself. Hearing things, seeing things. The barroom does that to a man. The devil enters you through the bottle and won’t leave until you quit. Or die.”
“Sorry, padre. Had you confused with someone else. Got to run.” This thing with the ghosts is getting bad, Jack thought as he continued up the steps. He took a quick look behind and saw the preacher buttonholing another sinner on the sidewalk.
The Kernan lobby did a good job looking swank without being too stuffy. Big marble columns hit the high ceiling with flowery golden spreads. The furniture was made of highly polished mahogany. The massive reception desk was a quarter circle chunk of gleaming white marble.
He didn’t have much of a chance to look around before Clara was on his arm. “Hello, Jack. Golly gracious, I’m hungry enough to eat a darned horse. Hey, what happened to your cheek?” She was still using that phony hick accent while flashing a killer smile with dimples on both cheeks. Her eyes seemed bigger and more hypnotic than ever—she had little black lines drawn around them. Her eyebrows were as sleek and russet-shiny as fox fur. She was dressed to the nines, with a big hat loaded up with feathers to set off her orange hair, which was styled in fiery swirls. She wore a flashy, low cut dress made of shimmering pale-blue fabric trimmed in lace. The woman was so stunning he decided to play along with her act for a while.
“Farm accident—cut myself with a sickle. Let’s go to a restaurant just down the street. They serve a good country supper that’ll remind you of back home. And by the way, you look like a real dish. Did your Pa have to sell another couple of cows or something?”
“Oh, gee whiz, thanks for noticing my silly little outfit. My cousin lent it to me.” As they stepped outside, Clara moved close to him. “Oh, it’s chilly, and I didn’t bring my wrap.” Jack took off his suit jacket and put it around her shoulders. She pressed close enough for him to feel her body heat as they walked the short distance to the restaurant.
Once in the place, he put the jacket back on. Her hands lingered on him as she smoothed the garment, all the while beaming a big, happy smile. Her vanilla-maraschino smell was strong and sweet. As they went to their table, Jack noticed everyone openly gawking at Clara. Several men shot him an awestruck look as if to say, “Buddy, you’ve got to have something real special going for you.” There’s nothing like squiring a beautiful woman to give a guy a cheap boost of self-worth.
Before sitting down, Clara ran both her hands lightly down his arm, causing him to shiver involuntarily. “I’m tingling all over, too,” she said, her voice a low purr.
She was good. Like any accomplished performer, she knew exactly how to play to her audience. “Just hoping to clear some stuff up with you,” he said.
“Sure. Ask me anything. Just don’t get me too tipsy—I might say something naughty.” He held her chair while she sat. The first thing she did was pick up a butter knife and check her reflection, turning her head one way, then another. “Be a dear and get me a Jamaica rum cocktail, will you, Jack?” The drink didn’t last long, and Clara got another. Dinner then arrived—a bowl of soup and a rib-eye steak for him and lamb chops for her. Clara kept nattering about how dirty and unsafe the city was compared to the country, making occasional teary references to her poor dead sister. Jack finally had enough.
“Knock off the act, Clara. You’re not playing to the peanut gallery while doing House of Dolls.”
The fork loaded with chop paused briefly before continuing to her mouth. She chewed daintily for a moment. “Well, it seems you’re a decent private detective after all.” Shorn of its rube affect, her voice was deep and cultured, with each word pronounced clearly and forcefully. “And, by the way, it’s A Doll’s House. I played Nora Helmer, a woman who leaves her husband to seek freedom and see the world. It’s a natural part for me.”
“As natural as you demanding a slice of the family inheritance from your sister?”
“Ah, yes. Filthy lucre.” She swept out her arm dramatically. “‘If money go before, all ways do lie open.’ That’s Shakespeare.”
Her slipperiness was getting under his skin. “Cut the crap.” He leaned in close over the table, and her simpering smile faded. “You killed Lizzie, didn’t you?”
“Don’t be a fool. We argued, but I loved her. She was the only family I had.”
“All you care about is coin. Here’s what I think happened.” Jack gripped the sides of the table and made it shake. “You dropped in on Lizzie to demand your cut of the family cash. She tells you it’s gone and laughs in your face. Then to rub it in, she tells you her man Nick has a line on a ton of dough—and you’re not getting any of that, either. You gave her a shove, she fell, and—”
“No!” Clara slammed her hand down on the table. Heads swiveled to look at them. She leaned in, leaving their faces inches apart. Jack had never seen such a fierce glare from a woman. She looked ready to tear him apart.
“Impressive,” he said. “When do you switch on the tears?”
She leaned back and drained her second cocktail. “Look, I don’t blame you for doubting me. Pretending is what I do. Whatever it takes to put on a good show. And I’ll admit I can be a teeny bit deceptive offstage, too. Lizzie wasn’t like that. She couldn’t help but to be sweet and honest all the time. She liked everybody—just the nicest person you could ever hope to meet. I could never hurt her. Can’t believe anyone could.”
“You want money. That matters more than anything to you.”
“You talk like money’s better than sex. Phooey—cash is just a means to an end. I’m going to California.” She tilted her long, milky neck and struck a pose worthy of a theater poster. “I’m a howling success onstage, darling. I’ve done Molière, Strindberg, Chekhov. But the future’s onscreen—in motion pictures, or as some fuddy-duddies call them, plays without words. They’re getting longer and more sophisticated all the time—Vitagraph is rolling out a four-reel version of Les Misérables as we speak. That kind of stuff’s a cinch for me to play. And the censors will eventually stop getting their knickers in a twist and let the talented directors show powerful, artistic pictures all around the country. There’s this fellow Griffith I know who’s making a picture at Biograph called A Corner in Wheat. It’s a dramatic story about how a tycoon forces up the price of bread and sends farmers into poverty. Griffith’s the guy who told me to move out to Los Angeles—he’s sure that’s the place where the best moving pictures are going to be made. And I want to do more than act. I’m going to direct, maybe even start my own production company.”
“Stop gassing on about yourself and let’s get back to Lizzie.”
“Get me another cocktail first.” Clara leaned back and regarded him with a cool look until her drink arrived. “I went to see Lizzie twice recently.” She took a long pull from the glass. “First time was last Friday. And yeah, I pushed for my share of the family inheritance. She’s all guilty because she spent it. I yell, and she starts apologizing, crying—then says they have a book worth a king’s ransom. She’s busy promising me money when Nick walks in and shuts her up. I tell him to leave her alone, and he takes a swing at me. Lucky he was drunk and missed. Then I left.”
“What book? What was in it that was so valuable?”
“I stew for a while and worry that Nick’s going to run off himself with all the money and leave Lizzie high and dry. I go back early Monday morning, hoping to find Lizzie and warn her. The door’s cracked open, and I find her shot dead.” Clara’s eyes filled, and a single tear rolled down her cheek before she lifted her glass and finished her cocktail. “I tell the landlord, and the cops show up. I went back to my hotel and got an idea—what if Lizzie kept a diary about some bigwig lover? Perhaps I can find out who the guy is and, just maybe, I can scare him into giving me some cash to blow town. I didn’t know what else to do. My show’s over and I’m broke. So, I put on my
farm-girl outfit and went to the cop station to find out whatever I could. Then you showed up and started asking about Nick and Lizzie. Figured I’d get friendly and maybe you’d give me some leads. Pretty smart, huh? No, Clara, it sure didn’t turn out that way.” She lit up a cigarette and inhaled deeply.
“Lizzie’s room was tossed pretty good,” said Jack. “Seems like someone was looking hard for something—like that book. Maybe you found the thing.”
“Her room was already torn apart when I found her. Anyway, you don’t know Lizzie. She’s not dopey enough to leave something valuable in plain sight. And if I had that book, why would I still be here? Believe me, I’d cash in quick and catch a train west.” Clara set her smoke in an ashtray and poked at her food. “You aren’t the only one who thinks I might have it. A man’s been following me all day. Don’t think he’s one of my theater fans.”
“I know,” said Jack, eyeing the city dick sitting nearby. “He’s right behind you. Don’t look.”
“Great, just great.” She dropped her fork. “Tell me, Jack. Do you know who killed my sister?”
“I’m afraid your work to rope me in has gone for nothing, sweetheart. All I know is the guy they arrested is probably innocent. And I bet you know a lot more about that book than you say.”
“No, I swear I don’t.” She dabbed at her lips with a napkin, careful not to smudge her lip paint. “Hey, you ever act? Like on a stage?”
“Think you can change the subject that easily?”
“I’m serious. You look like John Barrymore, the famous actor. Dark hair, nice eyes, roman nose, big chin. Actually, you look better than him because you’re taller.”
“Don’t waste your breath.” Her gall was really something. She’d have him curled around her finger if he had an ounce of vanity.
“You’ve got the perfect looks for moving pictures and maybe ought to come to Los Angeles, too. Picture acting’s easy—no lines to recite or anything. All you’d have to do with that face of yours is flash three big expressions: anger, joy, and lust. Got the first one down pat. I can help you work on the last two.” She tapped the ash off her cigarette, took a puff, and blew smoke at him playfully.
“I’ll bet you’ve helped more than one guy act like a perfect sap.”
She looked hurt for a moment before drilling him with a dead-level gaze. “Maybe you prefer the company of that lady doctor. Your funny little friend.”
“Leave her out of this.”
“Touched a nerve, I see.” Clara’s face went blank as she sat straight and stiff in her chair. “I am Jack’s mechanical automaton. I am dull as ditchwater. I do, however, have the ability to operate in the dark so that my imperfect approximation of a womanly appearance does not distract Jack from his unpleasant human desires.” It was an uncanny imitation of Sarah, right down to her flat, inflectionless voice.
“Knock that off right now or we’re done.”
Clara snapped back to herself in an eye blink. “Serves you right for that crack about me playing men for saps. I’m not a monster. I’m human. I’ve got feelings.”
Jack looked into her huge eyes, which were pools of awesome beauty. The sight was breathtaking—like the Pacific meeting the cliffs at Big Sur in California or the turtles swimming across the Hinatuan Enchanted River in the Philippines. Or maybe it was like staring down into a gorge with a mighty urge to jump into the void. He shifted his gaze away.
“Can you walk me back to my hotel?”
He wasn’t going to get any more useful information out of her. “Yeah, sure.”
They walked in silence to the hotel and then into the lobby. He wasn’t surprised when she stepped close, her breath hot on his neck. “Jack. I know you think I’m a schemer. But right now, I’m just a girl who feels sad and lonely. Not to mention scared to death of the guy who’s following me. I’m leaving tomorrow.” Clara pressed her body into him, rubbing an ankle against his lower leg. “Will you stay with me tonight? Please?”
Despite his better judgment, excitement ripped through him. Clara was the kind of woman a man dreams about. The kind of woman a guy would die to have and, afterward, leave a smiling corpse. And here she was, all ready to go. “Sorry, Clara. I’ve got an urgent appointment at a cabaret down the block.” She gave a little gasp and put a knuckle in her mouth, body trembling. “I don’t think you have much to worry about with that shadow of yours. He’s a city detective. Probably just interested in who you’re talking to. And I’m strictly a small fry who nobody cares about.”
“Well, aren’t you a hard-boiled egg. I’d accuse you of not liking girls, but it’s pretty obvious that you do.” She pushed off against him, stood back, and applauded softly. “Bravo for your own little performance. Good-bye, Jack.”
He knew it wasn’t good-bye. She hadn’t strung him along this far to give up just yet.
Jack wasn’t in a good frame of mind to visit a fleshpot. Clara’s invitation left him wildly stirred up. But mixing business and pleasure where he was headed was a sure-fire plan for disaster.
Macy's cabaret was close by, just blocks down Howard Street from St. Mary’s Seminary. Jack always got a kick out of how the sinful and the virtuous were jammed together in the city. It was the time of evening when the crowds were changing from respectable-seeming to shady-looking. People one might see in the daylight as laborers, clerks, or businessmen now could be taken as thieves, strong-arm men, even killers. There was something about nighttime in the city that brought home that anyone—including himself—could be a victim or a criminal, depending on fate and circumstance.
A rowdy gaggle crowded the sidewalk outside Macy’s. Macy himself was long dead, but the guy who ran the place continued the founder’s willingness to pay big bribes to the authorities. Employment of off-duty cops further sealed the deal. Their supposed job was to maintain order. Mainly they were there to bless the liquor and vice violations. He passed a short, broad-chested guy in a dirty slouch hat who was yelling at another man while waving his arms around. The arm-waver lurched backward and bumped into Jack.
“Excuse me, bub,” said Jack, continuing on his way. He was ready when the guy threw a sucker punch, and easily dodged it. “Sorry, little casino. I got no time for a fight.” The man roared and charged. Jack stepped aside like some kind of freak show bullfighter and the guy crashed into a group of toughs. Fists flew as he made his way inside.
The place made it easy to separate a customer from his money. Straight ahead was a bar backed by a long mirror, which made the liquor bottles lined up in front of it shimmer like a desert mirage. Next to the bar was an iron door that led to a gambling hell where, rumor had it, a high-stakes poker game had been going on continuously for three years. Off to the left was a small stage where a band made up of a cornet, piano, and fiddle banged out a hot song while a couple of underclothed women danced a halfhearted hootchy-cootchy in front of leering drunks parked at rickety tables. To the right was a row of curtained cubicles into which women led men.
Jack went straight to the bar and put his foot on the rail. He didn’t get anything to drink. This was the kind of place that served stuff worse than the usual coffin varnish—they used cheap chemicals to stretch their liquor and give customers a special kick. The glasses were rarely washed, so even getting water came with a risk of some nasty additive. It didn’t matter because he had company less than five minutes after walking into the joint.
“Honey, how about we go someplace private?” He turned to see a rangy woman in a sparkly, low-cut top and flimsy skirt that barely made it to her knees. The gal was on the downside of her career—whatever freshness she’d started with was long gone. She pressed up against him, a sad substitute for Clara.
“Looking for Lulu LaRue,” said Jack. “She around?”
“Well, ain’t you the picky one.” She put two fingers in her mouth and gave an earsplitting whistle. “Hey, Lou. You got a command performance.” The woman took her charms to the next guy hunched over the bar.
“Hello, baby.” A
woman came rushing over, skirt bunched around her thighs. “You got great timing. Little Lulu just chucked her crummy old tights and shoes.” She lifted a bare foot for his inspection, wiggling toes with a chipped coat of blood-red paint on the nails. “Let’s go.” She scurried into one of the cubicles and yanked the curtain shut after him. The only furniture was a cot with a filthy sheet stained various shades of brown and a rickety bentwood chair. Jack took the chair.
“Don’t get many customers as handsome as you, baby.” Lulu was painfully thin with dry bottle-blond hair and dark circles under bulging, hophead eyes. Her cheekbones stuck out like bright pink doorknobs. She was fidgety and kept scratching her arms. “That’ll be two dollars for the basic, in advance. You want anything else, got to pay up first, too.” She held out a shaky hand. Needle marks, some oozing pus, covered her forearm. Jack gave her two fives.
“Woo-hoo!” She jumped up and down with the money held in front of her like a kid with a lollipop. “Baby’s going around the world tonight.” She did a quick high-step dance, spun about gracefully, and kicked a leg straight over her head. She wore nothing under her skirt.
“Sit down, Lulu. Just want to talk.”
Her manic smile didn’t fade as she dropped her leg and glided onto the cot. “You want me to tell you that you’re a naughty boy, right? About how much you need spanking.” She shook a scolding finger at him. “Tell Momma just how bad a boy you are and I’ll whoop your bare bottom as hard as you need.”
Jack sighed, feeling exhausted. “I want to talk about Lizzie Sullivan. About some crooked plan she and Nick Monkton had, maybe for blackmail. A plan that looks to have gotten them both killed.”
Her smile disappeared and her intensity drained away. “You ain’t a cop. Too nice.”