1 No Game for a Dame

by M. Ruth Myers

  Driving over I’d stopped and bought an African violet in a pretty pot with a bow around it. When the door opened I extended the plant demurely.

  “Miss Johnson? The boss asked me to stop by with this and tell you how sorry we are for your loss and see how you’re getting along.”

  “You’re looking for Mae Johnson? Next door. One twenty-seven.” The house dress on the middle-aged woman was as worn as she was. “Didn’t know she had family. Who died?”

  “Mr. Norris.”

  “Her gentleman friend? Not much of a loss. Came around when he was broke, mostly. ’Least that’s how it seemed to me.” She was looking wistfully at the violet. I felt like a rat. “She’s at work. Gets home around four-fifteen. Want me to take that for her? I might have to pinch a leaf off.” She gave a tired smile. “You can start ‘em that way, you know. Grow a whole plant. I have a couple I got that way. Back when I could get out and walk through a store. Now I can’t leave my dad.”

  “I got another errand to run,” I said. “I’ll stop back. Looks to me like this plant could use some pruning, though. Why don’t you take a couple?”

  She took the pot with joy spreading over her tired face and removed two leaves.

  “Thank you,” she said shyly. “That’s a real pretty one. Double blossoms. If Mae’s not home and you need anything, stop back.”

  * * *

  I killed time in a diner which gave me a clear view of Mae’s place. Coffee and red raspberry cobbler bathed with cream helped. A little past four a woman with fading blonde hair went up the steps to the house and opened the door. Fifteen minutes seemed about right for a woman just home from work to take off her girdle and get comfortable. I waited, then walked to my car and got the African violet.

  Mae’s place had one apartment upstairs, two down, with a bell for each. I turned the bell marked Johnson and waited. After a couple of minutes I heard footsteps.

  “Mae Johnson?” I asked the woman who opened the door. When she nodded I repeated the line I’d used next door: My boss had sent me, sorry for her loss, etc. She blinked as though bewildered, looked down at the plant I was holding out to her, and blinked again.

  Mae had shed her working garb for a blue flowered house dress and satin mules with feather trim. She was no femme fatale, but she’d been pretty once. The years had caught up to her and her frame was better upholstered than it needed to be. Still, she’d taken some pains with her hair and had on a dab of lipstick that brightened her face.

  “That’s ... real nice. Thoughtful. Thanks.” She took the plant and held it awkwardly. “It’s – it’s nice of you,” she said again. “Would you like to come in?”

  “I won’t stay long,” I promised.

  She lived downstairs on the right. Her living room was tidy and kept up like she was. A couple of pillows brightened the sofa. An archway gave a glimpse of a small kitchen with an icebox. She put the pot of violets down and gestured me to a seat as a shaky laugh escaped her.

  “Kind of knocked me for a loop, you bringing me this. Didn’t think Benny had many friends, to tell the truth. I like flowers, though. No one’s brought me any since I can’t remember when. Who’d you say sent them? Your boss?”

  I nodded and waited, hoping she’d jump to conclusions and mention Woody Beale. She didn’t. I decided I’d better not chance it either.

  “Down at the lunch place. Mr. Norris was a good customer. Came in two, three times a week.” I tried not to think what a thug he’d been in my office and laid it on. “Nice guy.”

  Mae traced a doily on the back of the armchair where she was standing. “Yeah, he could be real good company.” She looked up. “I just got off work. Have water going for tea. Would you like a cup?”

  “I don’t want to put you to any trouble....”

  Waving off my feeble protest she went into the kitchen. She clattered around and returned with a tray displaying a five-and-dime tea set.

  “How’d you know about me?” she asked when we were settled with our cups.

  “Lefty – my boss – said Mr. Norris mentioned what street you lived on once when he was talking about you.”

  “Benny talked about me?” For a moment her eyes got moist. She shook her head to banish sentiment. “Surprised to hear it. He spent more time chasing floozies and propping up the bar at The Ace than he did coming here. Still, he turned up pretty regular. Sometimes we’d just have a drink here. Sometimes he’d take me out. Woman my age, that doesn’t happen a lot. He – well, like I said, he was company.”

  “My granny always claimed we need to make the best of what we have,” I fibbed. I’d never met my grannies. I was wondering about the joint she’d mentioned. It wasn’t one Mick Connelly had connected to Beale. “Anyway, I just came over and asked around. Is how I found you.”

  Mae looked up from her thoughts and gave a wry smile. “I guess that’s a good way to put it. Benny and I made the best of each other. Tell you the truth, though, I wouldn’t have paid to bury him if somebody hadn’t slipped the money for it under my door.”

  I managed to swallow my tea without choking. I looked at her with the curiosity I figured anyone would show. She laughed.

  “It’s crazy, isn’t it? Could have knocked me over with a feather when I came home and found that envelope.” She sighed and stretched out her feet in their fancy mules, contemplating the toes. Her voice grew dull. “It’s how I found out Benny was dead.”

  “Jeez. That’s tough.”

  “Yeah. Just some fifty-dollar bills and a typed note saying Benny was at the morgue, here was money to bury him. I didn’t know he’d been shot ‘til I went to see about him. Next thing I knew a pair of cops were standing there asking me questions.” She hesitated; sent me a glance. “I didn’t tell them about the note – just said someone at the grocery, I didn’t remember who, had mentioned they’d heard Benny was dead.”

  Now I was in a bind. One I’d think about some other time. Right now I wanted to keep Mae rolling.

  “Probably best,” I agreed. “There’d have been all kinds of bother for you, them wanting the money and asking you who you thought sent it. Maybe even coming over and questioning your neighbors.”

  She nodded. “That’s how I thought. And I honestly don’t have a clue who sent me that envelope. Like I said, I never thought from the way he talked that Benny had many friends.”

  “Maybe it was the guy he worked for,” I ventured. “Mr. Norris always let on how his boss was important.”

  Mae’s smile grew skeptical. “Benny liked to make everything sound big, you know? I think the guy owned a couple of nightclubs. But all Benny did was run errands for him, and now and then tend bar. Maybe he did have friends. I mean if your boss sent a plant....”

  “Or maybe somebody owed him money,” I suggested.

  She shook her head ruefully. “More likely Benny’d owe it. Got gulled a couple of times ‘cause he didn’t think things through as well as he should. Too sure of himself, if you know what I mean. But it’s wrong speaking ill of the dead when here a month or so back he turned up and took me out for a real nice evening. Steaks and pie a-la-mode and some dancing after. I could count on one hand the number of times he’d bought me dinner.”

  My ears were ready to fall off, but Mae was lonely. Since her chatter had already yielded one good-sized nugget I made encouraging sounds while she talked on.

  “He was in the finest mood. Said some of the contacts he had were paying off and there were good times to come.” She gave a small sigh. “That’s how it was with Benny. Things were always big – good or bad. Last time I saw him he was mad as spit, snarling how he wasn’t going to be made a patsy just because some muckety-muck in a fancy office building in Kettering was getting cold feet.

  “He scared me some when he got mad like that. I told him to come back when he cooled off. Almost turned him down when he asked could he have a glass of water before he left. But I got it for him and that was that, and next time I saw him....” She looked at her hands.


  “Life’s funny,” I commiserated. “Gee, I have to be going. Thanks for the tea.”

  “Sure thing. Thanks for the plant.” She got up with me and we went to the door. Just before she opened it, I turned back.

  “He usually came for our hash on Wednesday. We wondered where he was. Guess maybe that was the day he was upset, huh?”

  “Not likely he’d stay mad that long. It was Monday night he came here. Just a week ago. Like you said, life’s funny.”

  She watched from the front door as I walked up the street to my car. An ordinary woman who craved company, even company like Benny Norris. Because of her loneliness Lewis Throckmorton had gotten a lot for the price of the African violet I’d be putting on his expense account.

  I hoped the two-fifty I’d dangled as bait for my next meeting would yield half as much.

  Eleven

  Rain blew in half-hearted raspberries onto my windscreen as I drove back across town. People were already lining up outside soup kitchens, as eager for half an hour of shelter on a night like this as they were for food. There was plenty of time before I met the “friend” with information to sell about Woody Beale and his connection to Peter Stowe. I parked next door to Mrs. Z’s in the spot where Calvin left the car when they took it for servicing, got the umbrella I kept in the back seat and walked to the trolley stop.

  Even though the ride wasn’t long, by the time I got off I could feel the temperature starting to creep down. The rain had decided to fall in earnest. Fortified with the evening paper I took the back way into my building. The warmth of a gin and tonic seemed prudent to keep away sniffles, so I mixed one and put my feet on the desk, nestled my Smith & Wesson in my lap and read for a while. A previous client had sent me a check, so I typed a receipt to drop in the mail. At a quarter to six I left my lights blazing and paced back and forth in front of my window so anyone checking on me would think I was working late. A few minutes later I was in the alley again, this time following it a couple doors down and across to the back door of Apollo Hats.

  The haberdashery sat on the opposite side of the block from my own building. Mr. Seferis, the owner, let me in with a smile.

  “No customers,” he reported. “I give my wife’s uncle the bum rush, but him I glad to be rid of anyway.” He chuckled.

  It wasn’t the first time I’d come in the back way at Mr. Seferis’. I’d helped him out once, and I’d ordered hats there for my dad. Right now I was having a cap made for Seamus’ birthday. We chatted about it while I watched the street. I hadn’t pinned on the red flower I’d told my unknown caller I’d wear. I had a pretty good idea who was coming to meet me.

  The rain made watching easier. Customers weren’t likely to shop for hats after work on a day like this. At five ’til six a man crossed the street and hurried past, his shoulders hunched. Two minutes later a woman with an umbrella walked slowly up the opposite side of the street and stopped in a doorway. She pretended to look in a shop window but the movements of her head said she was checking her surroundings. Six o’clock came and went. Just as I began to think I’d been wrong she left the doorway and walked quickly toward the haberdashery. Beneath her umbrella there was a flash of platinum blonde.

  By the time the bell on the shop door jingled I had my back toward the entrance. As her heels clicked uncertainly past displays of hats, I picked up a felt fedora and pivoted back toward the window as if to examine it in better light. The woman’s caution before she came in suggested her nervousness at talking to me was real. To make sure she hadn’t been followed I watched the street a few more minutes while she gave Mr. Seferis malarkey about looking for a hat for her boyfriend.

  When I finally turned, even though she knew who she was meeting, the manicure girl from Ollie’s barber shop seemed startled.

  “Figured you’d remember me well enough without the flower,” I said.

  Her tongue ran nervously around perfectly painted lips. “I got on the trolley like always, but halfway to my stop I got off and took another one back. As a precaution, like. Figured you’d pay me back the extra fare.”

  Her brashness was unbelievable. She stood to make a nice little wad just talking to me and she wanted a nickel for a trolley transfer on top of it.

  “Smart thinking,” I said drily. “Let’s talk in back in case someone comes in.”

  We sat in a corner where we couldn’t be seen through the open doorway to the shop, her in a dilapidated chair and me on a three legged stool. She undid her coat. I took two bills from my pocket, smoothed them out on an overturned crate and anchored them down with a fifty-cent piece. After fishing around I found a nickel and set it down separately. Noting the arrangement the blonde frowned.

  “Woody Beale. Peter Stowe. What do you know about them?”

  The tip of her tongue wet her lips again. Her hands clasped her knees.

  “It was Ollie told Mr. Beale about you. Right after you were in the first time. I heard him call. Couldn’t hear much of what Ollie told him except that some dame – that’s what he called you – had come in asking about Mr. Stowe. And that you had showgirl legs.” She giggled nervously.

  “Why did Ollie think Beale would be interested?”

  She furrowed her brows. I had a hunch thinking didn’t come naturally to her.

  “Well, it was a guy who works for Mr. Beale brought Mr. Stowe in the first time. And Ollie does that now and then – tells Mr. Beale about people. Things he’s heard. Mr. Beale’s a real big customer – gets the works three times a week. No great tipper.” Her nose curled fractionally. “Ollie falls all over himself to please him.”

  “Tell me about Peter Stowe coming in that first time.”

  “Oh. Gee. Well, you could see right off that he was a gent. Nice manners. Kinda shy. The fella that brought him in–”

  “The one who works for Beale?”

  “Yeah, I forget his name. He brought Mr. Stowe in, introduced him, told Ollie they were pals and to give him the works, that he’d pick up the tab. I think it embarrassed Mr. Stowe, all that fuss. Like I said, he was real classy. Always thanked me when I finished his nails. Not many do. They just keep on talking to Ollie or somebody else like I’m just a door stop.”

  Now I was stumped. If Stowe was pals with someone who worked for Beale, what had gone wrong?

  “How long ago was all this?”

  She thought some. “Couple of months. He came in maybe half a dozen times. Then just like that–” She snapped her fingers. “– he quit showing up.”

  “Any idea why?”

  She shook her head. “So there. I’ve told you all I know. Can I have my money?”

  “In a minute.”

  “Hey, I’ve kept my part of the bargain!”

  I slid one of the bills toward her. “What you’ve told me so far earns that. Maybe you need to think some more. Beale? Stowe?”

  Snagging the bill with a polished red fingertip she began to pout. I let her. About a minute was all it took.

  “There’s nothing else to tell you,” she wailed. “Mr. Beale and some guy he knows had words a week or two back, but that wasn’t about Mr. Stowe.”

  “What was it about?”

  She shrugged. “All I know is I was outside having a smoke – Ollie lets me take a break now and then if we’re not busy. Anyway, I was leaning against the side of the building, having my cigarette, when this rich guy I’d never seen stormed in. A minute later him and Mr. Beale came out. They were arguing that way people do when they’re really sore but they’re too upper crust to swing at each other. Not shouting but you can tell anyway.

  “The guy who’d stormed in kept saying something about an errand boy and how could they be sure the idiot wouldn’t talk? Mr. Beale told him not to worry, but the other guy kept saying ‘He knows too much ... he knows too much.’ I couldn’t hear what Mr. Beale answered, but it made the other guy more upset. Leastways he got louder. He said first the pigeon Al picked blew up in his face and now–” Her fingers snapped. “Al. That’s it. Tha
t’s the name of the guy who brought Mr. Stowe in that first time. So anyway this guy who was mad at Mr. Beale said two blunders was two too many, or something like that, and Mr. Beale told him he’d take care of it.”

  In the other room the shop bell jangled startling both of us. A woman’s voice spoke. Then a child’s. Very young footsteps pattered across the wood floor. The blonde across from me let out her breath but this sudden reminder of other people spooked her.

  “I gotta go,” she said standing abruptly. “You going to pay me all you owe me or welsh?”

  Thoughts twirling with what she’d just told me I started to hand her the rest of the money then paused. “One more question. This Al who works for Mr. Beale, does he wear a rug?”

  “A toupee?” She pronounced it as two equal words, ‘two pay’. Her nervousness receded enough for her to giggle. “Nah, he’s got a nice head of hair. Good looking, except for the scar on his pinkie. Dresses almost as nice as Mr. Beale, but the way he looks at people gives me the willies.”

  The shop bell jingled again and the pattering footsteps skipped out. I held out the rest of the money, including the nickel. She snatched it greedily.

  “If Ollie finds out I talked to you, he’ll fire me. If Mr. Beale ever did....” She creased the bills lengthwise and pulled them between her fingers a couple of times. Her gaze veered back toward the front of the shop.

  “I didn’t come in from the street,” I reassured. “No one will known you saw me.”

  “Yeah, okay.” She picked up her umbrella and turned toward the front of the shop. “If you come to Ollie’s again, don’t let on you know me.”