“I told you I was looking for a man named Tommy Dell,” Horn said. “So how did you know—”
The Creole waved that away. “Plenty of time for that.”
“Anyway, I didn’t kill him. What else do you know?”
“That’s more complicated.” The Creole turned slightly on his stool and pointed across the room. “See her?”
In a booth against the far wall Horn saw a woman sitting alone. She didn’t look familiar. “I see her.”
“My sister Lurlene,” the other man said. “She the only relative I got left. I brought her out here a few years ago, when this place start to make some money for me. I take care of her. She not real good at taking care of herself, know what I mean?”
“I suppose so.”
“She been married twice, had a lot of boyfriends. She got three kids. Her oldest one is Tara, pretty thing. She fourteen now. Lurlene name her after that big place where Scarlett O’Hara live. But everybody call her Tootie.” He pulled out his wallet and extracted a small photo. Apparently a class picture, it showed a pretty, light-skinned girl, her hair severely marcelled. Her unforced smile was directed over the photographer’s shoulder, as if she’d just spotted her best friend. Horn didn’t know what was coming next, but his mind flashed back to the picture of Clea with which he’d begun his search. Pictures are meant to be keepsakes, to capture the image of a loved one for all time. But in the last few days, he reflected, photos had somehow come to represent loss. I don’t want to look at any more pictures of little girls, he thought fiercely.
“Nice-looking kid,” he said.
“You want to come on over here with me?” The Creole slid off his stool and led Horn across the room to the booth where the woman sat. He eased in beside her and motioned for Horn to sit on the far side.
“This here is Mr. John Ray Horn,” Doucette said to the woman. His tone was flat, as if he had used up whatever affection he might have felt toward her. “I want you to tell him what you told me.”
The woman looked sullen and tired. She was the color of coffee with a splash of milk and very pretty. Her dress was trimmed in lace at the throat and cuffs and looked expensive, but she also looked as if she had dressed carelessly. She had missed fastening one button in the front, and her soft maroon hat perched precariously on the side of her head like an afterthought.
“Can I get another rum and Coke?” Her fingers were curled like claws around a highball glass that was empty save for the melting ice cubes.
Doucette shook his head. “Maybe later. You tell him.”
She pursed her lips together in a way that gave her face almost a comic look, but Horn saw something else in her eyes, something that made him almost look away.
“She don’t want to tell you,” Doucette said quietly, in a tone he might use for a child that wouldn’t eat her spinach. “She don’t want to tell you how she met him here one night he came around to do business with me. How he start takin’ her out, how she introduce Tootie to this nice man. Ain’t that right?” he asked her, but she just stared at her glass.
“It was Tootie he wanted,” the Creole went on. “He already knew about her, ‘cause I’d told him about this niece of mine, I was so proud. Makes me dumb, don’t it? He had a thing for little girls. This Del Vitti, he like to call himself Tommy when he scoutin’ around for children, for himself and some friends of his. Even had two names for his two jobs, Lurlene tells me. Tony was his real name and his business name, but Tommy was his pimpin’ name. Keep things separate. Ain’t that slick?
“Anyways. . . he find out what Lurlene, she need the most. She like attention from a good-looking man, she like dinner and dancing. Mostly she like money to feed the habit. So one day this Del Vitti, he tell her he give her three hundred, and all she got to do is let him and his friends spend some time with Tootie. She won’t get hurt, he tell her. Did she know what was goin’ to happen? Maybe, maybe not. Anyway, she say fine. And he take Tootie off with him, and he bring her back late that night. And she cryin’. And she got ice cream on her dress, ‘cause they stop off for a banana split on the way home. But the ice cream don’t make her feel any better.” He reached over and squeezed his sister’s arm, and a single teardrop moved down her cheek, as if formed by the pressure of his hand. “Ain’t that right?”
The Creole sat back heavily, and the rest of his words came out in a sigh. “Little bit at a time, Tootie tell her what happen. And Lurlene, some friend tell her about the story in the paper today, and she decide to tell me all about it. I’m not as dumb as she think. That first time I talk to you, I already know something goin’ on with the girl, somebody been messin’ with her. I just didn’t know how bad.”
He got up and beckoned her out of the booth. Still silent, she moved quickly past him as if fearing a blow. But his hands were at his sides. “You go on home and take care of your children,” he said quietly.
After she had gone, Doucette summoned the bartender over, and soon they had fresh steaming cups in front of them. Horn shifted uneasily in his seat. Doucette looked at him. “I know,” he said. “You and me, we not exactly best buddies. So why I telling you all this?”
“I wondered.”
“Well, here’s the thing. Other night, you just a guy come walking in here looking for trouble. You find some trouble, you expect me to help you out. Nothin’ in it for me. Now things change. I done told you what happen to Tootie ‘cause I think this tied in with your little girl, and maybe you can use it. And. . . .”
“And?”
“And maybe I want something from you now.”
“You want to know if I’ve found out anything.”
“That’s right. I want to know about Del Vitti’s friends.”
“So you can go after them?”
The Creole shrugged. “You don’t have to worry about that. You found your child?”
“No,” Horn lied.
“Well, you got your hands full looking for her. Me, I’m curious about these old boys who like to stick it to little girls, send ‘em home crying.”
“What did Tootie remember about them?”
“Nothin’. Faces was covered, she tell her mama.”
Horn sipped at his coffee, trying to think fast. He owed the Creole and wanted to repay him, but not at the cost of letting him interfere. He decided to tell him just enough and no more.
“All right,” he said. “Here’s what I know. It was probably four men, all of them white. They had a lot of girls, starting years ago. Two of the men are dead now, and you don’t need to know their names. The third one I’m not sure about yet. The last one was Vincent Bonsigniore.”
He’d never seen any emotion in the Creole’s face, but now something like alarm took it over. “Vincent?” he muttered. “Vinnie B? Sweet mother. . . .”
“You’re surprised?”
Doucette nodded slowly. “Man been selling me liquor for years. So Del Vitti was just—”
“He was just doing a job for his boss. When you called him a pimp, you nailed it. He was collecting girls for Vinnie.”
“How you know?”
“Bonsigniore was arrested back in New York years ago for the same kind of behavior.”
“That don’t exactly prove it.”
“It’s good enough for me.”
“You think he get your friend killed?”
“I do. And now that you know about him, what are you going to do about it?”
“How the hell do I know?” Doucette looked angry. “Like to kill him dead, that’s what. But Vinnie, he a big man in this town, a lot bigger than this ol’ boy. He got soldiers to protect him. So for now, I just keep on doin’ business with him. Wait and see. Maybe some day I get my chance.”
He drained his cup and set it down with a clatter. “Tootie say they take her ‘way back in the woods. You know where?”
/>
Horn nodded. “It was a place up in the mountains belonging to one of the men who’s dead now.”
“You think any of that still going on?”
“No,” Horn said. “Too many of them are dead now. I think it’s over. Except for the girls. It won’t be over for them. It was worse for the older ones. The little ones, like my daughter—I think they just used them for pictures.”
“They the lucky ones,” the Creole said, his voice almost a whisper. “If you want to call any of ‘em lucky.”
Horn picked up his hat from the seat and maneuvered to the edge of the booth. “Before I go,” he said, sliding the photo of Clea across the table, “I’d like you to look at this one more time. The other night—”
“I told you I never seen her. That was a big fat lie.” The Creole flashed a golden grin. “Sorry ‘bout that now. Sure I seen her. That pretty-boy piece of shit, he bring her here once or twice. She get some attention all around the room, I remember. I thought she just some good-looking young thing he picked up somewhere. She sure look eighteen to me. But now I know what been going on, I just feel bad.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Horn said.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
After leaving the Dixie Belle, he stopped at a place on Central for some chicken and dumplings. It was almost dark when he pulled up in front of the converted bunkhouse. Inside, Maggie and Clea were washing the dinner dishes.
“Hi, you two,” he said.
“We couldn’t wait for you,” Maggie sang out. “Couple of hungry gals here.”
“That’s fine.” He took a seat and turned on Maggie’s radio, a big Philco floor model with a molded wood facade that vaguely resembled the Chrysler Building, to see if there was further comment on the shooting in the Hollywood Hills. In a practiced baritone, the announcer was reciting news about Congress looking into Communist infiltration of the movie studios, a suicide attempt by Judy Garland, and a fatal car accident in Santa Monica. Nothing about Anthony Del Vitti.
Maggie and Clea came out to join him. “You want me to find some music?” she asked.
“No, thanks.” He turned off the radio. “You mind if Clea and I have a talk?”
“Not at all,” she said, and headed for the back door. “You know where to find me.”
“She’s been in the stable most of the day,” Clea said. “The mare looks very sick.”
“She’s not really sick,” he said. “That’s just the way they get when they’re about to have a baby.”
“She’s not going to die?”
“Well, I don’t think so. Animals are pretty good at that sort of thing.”
“I’m glad.”
He paused, weighing his next question. “Have you been thinking about Tommy?”
She nodded vaguely. She was still wearing Maggie’s shirt and jeans and sat with her legs tucked under her, a position she’d favored as long as he’d known her. She had always carried some of her mother’s features, but now he could truly see some of Iris the woman in her—the slant of a cheekbone, the tilt of her head, the wary grace of her posture. And although Iris’ appeal was as much about sexuality as surface appearance, Clea’s features, seen in the soft light from the table lamp, threatened to blossom one day into classic beauty.
Looking at her, Horn felt something like despair. She’s just leaving childhood behind and getting ready to step into grown-up territory, he thought. It should be the happiest time of her life. Instead, she’s carrying around memories of murder and abuse. And there’s not much I can do right now to make it any better.
“You liked Tommy, didn’t you?”
“Uh-huh. He was nice to me.” She plucked at a loose thread on her pants leg.
“Did you know his real name wasn’t Tommy Dell? It was Anthony Del Vitti.”
She looked up at him briefly, then down again.
“I’m sorry somebody killed him, but you need to know he didn’t tell you the truth about himself. He worked for a man who. . . well, who liked to spend time with young girls. Very young, even younger than you. And Tommy would find girls for this man. Some of the girls were hurt—”
“Tommy was nice to me,” she interrupted.
“Why did you go with him?”
“He said he’d take care of me. He did take care of me.”
“Did he—” Damn. How do you find the words? “Honey, I’m sorry, but I need to ask you this: Did he do anything sexual with you?”
Clea shook her head.
“You sure? Even touch you or anything?”
“No,” she said, her voice rising, looking squarely at him. “He was good.”
It’s hard to believe. But she doesn’t seem to be lying. He tried to imagine another side to Del Vitti, the man who went trolling through Los Angeles for children. He tried to imagine the man keeping Clea in his house and not touching her. The image was out of focus, and he put it away.
“Did he introduce you to any other men he wanted you to spend time with?”
“No.” She looked disgusted.
“Okay, I believe you. Why did you run away from home?”
Having abandoned the loose thread, her attention was now on a fingernail, which she picked at carefully. “I just wanted to.”
“Were you afraid of anything?”
She said nothing.
“Or anybody?”
No answer.
“Clea, how did your new daddy treat you? Was he all right to you?”
She shrugged. “I guess.”
Her long pauses were maddening. “Then why did you run away? Was it your mother?”
No answer.
“Your mother and father are very worried about you, and they asked me to find you. Why don’t you want to go home?”
Nothing.
He shifted in his chair, trying not to grow irritated with her. She’s been through a lot, he told himself. Don’t bully her. But don’t let up on her either.
“All right. Let’s talk about something a little different. Do you remember your first father? Your real father?”
“Just a little.” She looked apprehensive.
“Do you remember the lodge up in the mountains where your mother and I took you once? And Scotty was there?”
“Uh-huh,” she said slowly, as if retrieving the memory from someplace deep.
“We went for walks in the snow, and later you played by the fire while we sat at the table with our cards. You remember?”
“I think so.”
“Well, that wasn’t the first time you were there. A long time before that, you were at the lodge. But your mother and I weren’t there that time. Do you remember anything about—”
She picked more furiously at her fingernail. He couldn’t see her downcast eyes, but he was suddenly aware of the blood sprouting around the cuticle. He got up and went to her. “Honey, don’t do that.” She looked up guiltily and put the finger in her mouth. “Let me have it.” He pulled out his handkerchief and wrapped it around the finger. “Hold that there,” he said.
He sat next to her, knowing he should push ahead with questions about the lodge, but he didn’t have the heart. “You know how many people have been worried about you? People all over this town. I talked to Peter Binyon, one of your old boyfriends—I’m kind of glad you didn’t stick with him, by the way. And Addie Webb and I went looking—”
“Addie?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Is she all right?”
“She’s all right.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. Addie can take care of herself. Look, Clea. . . .” He turned to face her on the couch. “This is real hard. But if you don’t talk to me about why you ran away, don’t tell me everything that’s going on. . . Well, your folks want you back, a
nd I don’t feel right about keeping you here anymore.” He touched her knee. “You’ll have to—”
“Don’t take me home,” she said in a low, broken voice.
“I won’t take you. But I’ll have to let them know where you are, and I know they’ll come get you. You belong at home.”
He got up and stood there for a moment, trying to think of something else to say. Finally he left her there. Was he bluffing? He desperately wanted to keep her where he knew she was safe. But he knew that if Iris and Paul Fairbrass found out what he’d done, he could be in trouble with the police again, he might even go back to prison. His threat to send Clea home was his last chance. He hoped it would work.
He went out to the stable and stood maternity watch with Maggie for a while. When he returned, Clea had gone to bed. He sat by the phone as a thought took shape. Thelda Webb was probably at the Cocoanut Grove tonight. He pulled out a scrap of paper on which he’d written a number, picked up the phone, and dialed it. “Addie, this is John Ray Horn,” he said when she answered. He spoke in a low voice so Clea wouldn’t overhear. “I need to tell you something.”
* * *
The dining room at the Hotel Alexandria was high-ceilinged and well-lit, and waiters moved around placing silver and napkins and smoothing the white tablecloths. Lunchtime was still a half-hour away, and the big room was almost empty of diners, except for those occupying three tables against the far wall.
“Vinnie likes to eat before the crowd,” Mad Crow said to Horn as they stood in the doorway. “The hotel must appreciate his business, ‘cause they give him the room early.”
“Either that, or they don’t like hurting his feelings.”
“You still want to do this?”
“You bet.”
“Just be careful what you say, okay?”
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