by Kane, Henry
I love a loose tongue. I mean, there are occasions when I love a loose tongue. This was such occasion. If two bourbons had helped, two more bourbons would not hinder. I drank my own drink in self-defense, waved to Bernie for more of same. Bernie waved toward the rear, and his wave produced Chico. Chico took away the empties and brought back fulls. This time, refreshed by sufficient drags on pot in the toilet, he remembered to bring swizzle sticks. If you’re going to get swozzled, I always say, it’s nice to get swozzled on a swizzled drink.
My lady had taken a package of cigarettes from her bag and was lighting a cigarette. I noticed that her fingers trembled. I said, “You have had time to cool out. If you wish to expunge your former remarks about the Touraines, I consent. You may start fresh. Also, your fingers are trembling.”
She rubbed out the cigarette in an ash tray. “You’re a nice guy, Mr. Chambers. A handsome guy and a nice guy. Generally those two don’t go together. What’s your excuse?”
“I haven’t pleaded guilty yet to either of your accusations. So, no excuse. Do you want to start fresh?”
“As fresh as before.”
“Once more around with Amy,” I said. “You’re a living doll.”
“Where were we?” she said and sipped swizzled bourbon.
“Touraine is a dead son of a bitch, king-size. And Mrs. Touraine is a hypocrite, hoity-toity.”
“She sketched you in on her late husband, did she?”
“Once over lightly.” I quaffed scotch, quit quaffing, and recited. “He was a football star at Stanford. He worked the little theaters in San Francisco. He did a short haul as a lousy actor in Hollywood. He did a shorter haul as a reporter in Los Angeles. He was subject to some kind of blackouts. She didn’t love him any more but he needed her and clung to her and she felt motherlike to him, so she didn’t divorce him.”
“That,” she said, “if you’ll pardon the expression, is a lot of crap. She couldn’t divorce him. Not unless she hooked a sucker who would pay him a hell of a lot of loot.”
“You mean he wasn’t subject to blackouts and he didn’t cling to her and she didn’t feel motherlike to him?”
“He was subject to blackouts. All the rest is a lot of hoo-hah phooey-hooey.”
“Honey, if this isn’t just female viciousness and you know what you’re talking about, you can be of real help.”
“Look, who’s supposed to be helping whom here?”
“Sweetie, you didn’t perhaps pop him yourself, did you?”
“Sweetie, if I would have had the nerve, I would have.”
“Sweetie, insouciance is sometimes a clever cover-up. Like for murder.”
“Sweetie, screw you and insouciance, whatever the hell insouciance is. Whoever murdered that guy should be wearing a medal. Do you see any medals on me?”
“Not now but the memory lingers on. I saw your medals, Miss Strange. I bow low in obeisance to beauty.”
“Bow low enough and I won’t let you up. Flattery will get you somewhere, Mr. Chambers. I liked you from the start, remember?”
“Don’t trust me, sweet. I’m a venial sinner who’s dead set against mortal sin. I’m a moral schizo. If it ever turns out that you banged his bean, I’ll turn you in before I turn you over, and with pleasure.”
“I prefer that pleasure in reverse, but each to his own.” She brought her glass to her lips, gurgled bourbon. Then she put the glass aside. “Let’s skip the delicious subject of murder, for the time being, and move on to my mess of problem.”
“What’s your problem, baby, and when did it begin?”
“Began when Karen’s problem began.”
“And when did Karen’s problem begin?”
“When she met Jason.”
“Quick circle. We’re back to Jason of the Golden Fleece.”
“Jason of the Golden Fleecing would be more on target. Let me throw you some gospel on Golden Boy — not manure from wifie about the man of the house.”
“Ah, shoot,” I said.
“Let’s begin with the fact that he was a gorgeous hunk of man who was a marvelous lover.”
“And how would you know?”
Grimly she said, “I know.”
“Okay, I take your word. Now I’ll take more facts.”
“Just one more fact, and that sums the guy. He was a mean, deadly, heartless, narcissistic bastard with one great gift — a gift for extortion. That was it. That was a snake who knew how to put fear into people’s hearts and have that fear spill out gold for him. He lived big, he spent big. Let the cops look in on his wardrobe. Every suit was custom-made for three hundred bucks and up. His shoes, shirts, underwear — even his ties — were custom-made. He never drove anything but a Caddy convertible, and each year a new model. People either paid off on a one-shot deal and he let them loose, or they were never able to pay off and he never let them loose. He had Karen locked up. He had me locked up. God knows who else.”
She selected a new cigarette and lit up. Her fingers were dancing like nervous puppets on a jiggling string propelled by a palsied drunk with D.T.’s. She inhaled deeply, exhaled blue smoke in a straight stream. The slitted green eyes were murderous. “At the beginning,” she said, “his name wasn’t Touraine, it was Tully. And it wasn’t Jason, it was James. James Tully. Jimmy (Two-touchdown) Tully.”
The bell pealed sudden inside of my head. “Two-touch-down Tully. Sure,” I said. “I remember. Who doesn’t? Stanford. All-American halfback.”
“All-American halfback, my All-American half-ass. All-American slob. All-American heel. King of the sons of bitches. De luxe. What did she tell you about San Francisco?”
“Times were tough. Young people trying to make their way. And a sick father to boot.”
“She never booted the sick father — I’ll say that for her.”
“Then there was a sick father.”
“I didn’t say she lies about everything, did I? Although, as a general diagnosis, that would about cover it.”
It was time to change the oil. “Sweetie,” I said. “She talks well of you, she really does.”
“I talk well of her too — a deep, down, muddy well.”
“She sounded as though she liked you.”
“She likes nobody but herself. Period. If you know that, then you know Karen. Exclamation point. A slut. A hoity-toity hypocritical slut. And a slut with a record that she’s a slut.”
“She didn’t say anything like that about you.”
“Well, she could have. Because I’m a slut with a record that I’m a slut too.”
I lubricated on Scotch. She lubricated on bourbon.
I said, “Sweetie, you’re laying claim to all sorts of records, and you’re dragging her along with you. What’s all of that have to do with your problem?”
“All to do. Let me bring you back to San Francisco.”
“You’re transporting me,” I said.
“Like all good liars, a little bit she was telling the truth. At the beginning, at the very beginning, it was rough in San Francisco. Then Jason sniffed out a couple of rich suckers, and the ball started rolling.”
“Like how?”
“We were four girls, friends; in all modesty, all good-lookers; and each of us was trying to trade on our looks and what we thought was our talent. There was Eva Madison, there was Claire Williams, there was Mrs. Karen Tully — that was her name then — and there was Edwina Somerset — that was my name then. Eva was trying to be an actress — she stank. Claire was trying to be a dancer — she was good but not lucky. Karen was trying to be a singer — she was fair. And I, God help me, was trying to be an actress too — and I stunk up any stage I got onto. As a model, I was fair, but who wanted to be a model? I wanted to be an actress, wouldn’t you know?”
“I would,” I said.
She pulled on her bourbon. “So we all starved, gracefully. But I mean — starved. I mean real rat-garret-type starvation. When a date took us to a steak joint, we’d fill up on the appetizer, like shrimp or crabmeat or
herring with lots of bread and butter, and then we’d fill up some more on soup, good, rich, heavy creamed soup, and when that big steak would come along, we’d nibble and make faces and have it wrapped to take home for the dog — only none of us had a dog. Have you ever eaten cold steak, sliced?”
“I have. It’s delicious.”
“And nutritious. For two days after, we’d be living on nutritious cold steak sandwiches, canned vegetable soup, coffee, and beer. A good enough diet, as long as the steak held out. So, as you can see, we were ripe.”
“For what?”
“For the blandishments of the silver tongue of Golden Boy.”
I nursed my Scotch. She neglected the dregs of her bourbon ball, wrapped up in her tale of woo.
“It started,” she said, “with Karen.”
“What started?”
“I’m telling you. One of the rich suckers that Jason had flushed was an elderly guy named Frankie Kingston. He was a widower, a millionaire with a mansion up on Nob Hill. Karen was singing in a dump called the Lavender Turnip. Jason took Kingston slumming, Kingston took a gander at Karen, and his old wattles started fluttering. The guy flipped, and then Jason did one of his famous talk-jobs.”
“To whom?”
“To Karen.”
“She was his wife then, I take it.”
“You take it true, Mr. Chambers.”
“You mean a man was arranging for his own wife — ”
“When you say man, already you’re wrong, Mr. Chambers. Jason Touraine was an animal. The lowest form of animal. Vermin.”
“Please go on,” I said. “I’m sorry I interrupted.”
“I’m glad you interrupted. It’s salve for the soul to call that bastard names.”
“So he talked her into it?”
“He did. She’d get two hundred bucks for a date with Kingston, plus any little bonus he’d care to throw her — half kicked back to Golden Boy. Oh, he gave her all the palaver, you know. He’s an old guy, what can he do? He’s a sweet old man who is dying for young and beautiful companionship. He’s a harmless old man and you’re doing good for an old guy before he goes to his grave. Must I draw diagrams?”
“No.”
“Pretty soon Karen bloomed in minks and Jason blossomed in his first convertible and they had a chic little apartment in the best part of town. I was the next victim and I admit I didn’t have to be shoved. I jumped.”
“Was it straight call-girl stuff?”
“No, not at all. The Johns were rich, the richest — charming, handsome, lovely. They didn’t want jaded whores, they wanted young and pretty girls. You could be joining a party, you could be hostess on a yacht cruise for weeks, you could accompany the guy to Vegas, Chicago, New York. You were taken to dinner, plays, opera, clubs, the best of homes. There was only one catch — the guy owned you: he had the right to take sexual potluck if he wished. A lot of them didn’t wish. A lot of them wanted the company of a vivacious and beautiful young girl. Of course, some of them demanded the weirdest scenes, and they got it. They were buying and they were entitled to the fruits of the purchase.”
“And what did they pay for these fruits?”
“The fees ranged from a hundred or two for a night, to a thousand and more for trips and stuff. The Johns bought us clothes and furs and precious trinkets but they never embarrassed us by paying cash. Leave it to Jason, He got the cash, paid half to us, and kept half as his kicker. Pretty soon we were a ring, a solid ring — Eva, Claire, Karen, and me. Nobody ever called us, aside from Jason and our own personal dates. The Johns called Jason and Jason made the arrangements. Actually, it wasn’t too tough, the Johns didn’t pile up. We were all doing the work we wanted to do — the acting, the singing, the dancing — but we didn’t have to worry about cold steak any more.”
I finished my Scotch. I held the match for her new cigarette. I said, “So? Who set off the bonfire?”
“How do you know?”
“I have extrasensory perception.”
“No. How?”
“You’re here in the East working legit as a model. So something must have gone boom.”
“Eva Madison went boom. But boom-tee-aye!”
“How?”
“Shacked with a guy named Clinton, Max Clinton. He used to be a politician, a state senator, made a fortune in oil, and retired.”
“Married?”
“You bet. His wife had gone up to Oregon to visit her mother and had taken the kids. Eva moved in with him for a month. When she moved out, she moved a chinchilla coat out with her, worth twenty thousand bucks, and a diamond bracelet worth just as much, and two cheap little diamond rings worth a piffling five thousand each. She picked up all her marbles, including those in her head, and blew town. She had figured out a smart gig, and he had no comeback.”
“Well, if she got away with it, then how — ”
“She didn’t get away with it.”
“You said no comeback.”
“Mr. Clinton had a wife and three kids. What was he going to do? Squawk that a temporary squaw had walked out with his wife’s pretties?”
“So? Did she get away with it?”
“The hell she did. For the insurance company, he reported it as a burglary, but he was a politician and he got the ear of another politician and chewed it off. He blew the whistle on Golden Boy and the saucy source of his gold. A tap was put on Jason’s phone and the coppers built up a mass of evidence. Then Jason got a telephone call from topsy-turvy Eva from New Orleans — and the house fell in.”
“Like how?”
“Eva, on the phone, told him where she was staying in New Orleans. The cops flew men down there, she was quietly extradited, and brought back to San Francisco. Then the rest of us were picked up — Claire, me, Karen, and Jason — and then Golden Boy’s golden tongue went to work on conning the coppers. It all came out later from a young D.A. who was sweet on me.”
“What came out?”
“Jason’s con. We were being held on prostitution charges with the additional charge of grand larceny for Eva; Jason on the charge of professional procurer. But leave it to Jason to smell out the weaknesses. Max Clinton was a big shot who didn’t want his private life dusted off and the other Johns were rich and influential men. So the police had a hot potato on their hands.”
“Five hot potatoes.”
“But Jason cooled them off.”
“By talking cold turkey?”
“He called for private conferences with some of the brass of the coppers and some of the crass of the D.A.’s. He told them that Eva still had the loot and would turn it over to the insurance company without fuss or furor. He told them how the influential Johns could sleep easy on their overstuffed mattresses without worry about the pricks of publicity. He told them how Max Clinton could get his satisfaction and how they the cops could still get their convictions.”
“And what did Jason want for all of this?”
“His neck, and he got it. Scot-free. He wasn’t even indicted.”
“And how did Golden Boy work this miracle?”
“Trade. He traded us in — for him. He guaranteed them pleas of guilty; no trials, no lawyers, no fuss, no newspapers, no publicity.”
“Jason, as go-between — went-between. Is that it?”
“He saw each of us alone, one by one. First he did the black paint-job, a heavy coat. He told us the cops were going to crack down, that Claire and I and Karen and he were slated to go away for three years, and that Eva was set for ten. He let that soak in, let it dry for a couple of days, and then he came back with the whitewash, the con job. He knew somebody, he could work the fix. If we pleaded guilty — and we all the hell knew how guilty we were — Claire, Karen, and I would get thirty days; Eva would get a year and a day; and he would get a suspended sentence for cooperating in making the arrangements. That last was a lie. As far as he was concerned, the indictment was quashed; it was as though he was never arrested.”
“And as far as the rest of you were
concerned?”
“In a quiet proceeding with no publicity we did as we were told and were sentenced as scheduled.”
“And the final paragraph to the sentence as scheduled?” She mashed the stub of her cigarette. “We did our time and scattered, all except Claire Williams. She committed suicide. Last I heard of Eva Madison she had married an Englishman and was living in Australia. Me, I lit out for New York. Jason went back to the little theaters, was spotted by a movie producer, and he and Karen went to Hollywood. There they legally changed their names to Touraine. Four months ago they showed up in New York, and that’s when my present problems began.”
She tilted her bourbon and drained it. We were stripped down to our bare glasses and I was about to call for replenishment but the door opened and the boss rolled in. He was dressed in fastidious sports clothes: he would change to fastidious tuxedo in his office in the rear. He began to wave to Bernie and then he saw me and his hand got struck in the middle of the wave like a swimmer in the ocean suddenly taken with cramp. Then the hand went down and the smile came up and he strolled over to our table.
“Well, well,” he said, “of all days to come dropping in on old John. Anything special?”
“What’s so special about Tuesday?”
“Nothing, only you ain’t been here in quite some time. I thought maybe there was something special you wanted to talk about.”
“Not a thing. Should there be?”
“Not if you say there ain’t, pal.”
He was tall, big-boned, thick-necked, and handsome in a burly way. He was about forty with wavy black hair distinguished by a touch of banker’s grey at the temples. He had a deep soft voice and a gentlemanly manner. The man beneath the manner was about as gentlemanly as a python. He had black eyes and long white teeth; when he smiled his lips writhed back and the long teeth gave him a wolfish smile, not unattractive. Now he smiled and called to Bernie at the bar, “Drinks at this table by courtesy of the house.”
“The house has already been paid,” I said. “Meet Miss Strange.”
“How do you do,” he said. She nodded.
“Well,” he said, “any more drinks, the house meets the tariff. Pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am.” And he touched fingers to his forehead in a mark of adieu and went off to his rendezvous with a tuxedo.