Night Lady

by William Campbell Gault

  Who’s perfect? Are you?

  Two Santa Monica uniformed officers came in and sat at the counter. The older one of the pair looked at me frowningly a moment before sitting down. I concentrated on my food, feeling like Mickey Cohen must feel in Beverly Hills.

  The older one leaned over toward the younger one at the counter and the younger one looked at me. I looked back at him without interest. He turned away and they both laughed quietly.

  Resentment bubbled in me and I fought it. I had already made an unmitigated ass of myself once today. Once a day is enough, too much. They had their pensions and their uniformed arrogance but also their hungry families and the dislike of practically everybody they met.

  Who’s perfect? I asked myself. Am I? I finished the ribs and gulped my coffee and left Smoky Joe’s.

  There wasn’t much point to it, but I drove over to the Petalious duplex. A Cadillac Coupe de Ville was parked in front of the place. I walked to the rear half of the establishment and rang the bell.

  Mike came to the door. He glowered at me and asked, “Come to tangle, tough guy?”

  “It wouldn’t be fair unless you’re armed,” I said casually. “Because I am.”

  “I could break your arm before you got your gun out,” he said.

  “Possibly,” I admitted. “But I can shoot with either hand. I thought we could talk, Mike.” He shook his head stubbornly.

  “Phone your boss,” I suggested. “Ask him if it’s all right to talk with me.”

  He studied me warily. “Who’s my boss?”

  “I know. Maybe you don’t, so I won’t voice the name. But if you do, phone him.”

  “You don’t know nothing,” he said. “You’re fishing. Get out of here. It’s my property. Beat it.”

  I shrugged and turned away. The door slammed behind me.

  I was down to the sidewalk when I saw Miss Quintana coming from the north, a bag of groceries in one arm. She was wearing a sweater and skirt and she walked erectly and gracefully, doing both articles of apparel full justice. A woman who was all woman. I waited.

  “Can’t you leave him alone?” she asked me. “He isn’t bothering you. Can’t you get off his back?”

  “I’ll try. Married yet?”

  “You’re no gentleman, are you?”

  “I’m a peasant,” I agreed. “Great melting pot, this America. Remember me to all the girls at Lindsay Hall.”

  Her fine body stiffened and her eyes glowed hotly. “You’re not only insolent, you’re cruel. Mike is twice the man you are.”

  I shook my head and stared at her. How could she say that? Sharp, personable, handsome guy like me. She was blind. What did that Greek have that I didn’t have? In the order of their importance: two triplexes, four duplexes and a Cadillac Coupe de Ville. But she didn’t need these, a Quintana.

  There was no understanding women. At the Palladium, there had been a lanky, skinny guy with a real girlish face who did better than I did, night after night, when that was my stamping grounds. Women are absurd.

  She stared at me and I stared at her and I had the strange feeling that she could be measuring me as I was her, she could be seeing me as I tried to imagine her, under the sweater and skirt.

  Then, from the rear unit, a voice called, “What the hell is going on out there? What are you two talking about?”

  It was Mike and there had been more than annoyance in his voice. There had been doubt, there had been jealousy.

  She flushed, I thought. She looked toward the open doorway and smiled. She called, “I’ve been telling him you’re a better man than he is.”

  I gave her my most superior smile. There had been challenge in her voice.

  “He knows that,” Mike called. “Hurry up, I’m hungry.”

  She stood where she was. Who was he, to order a Quintana around? She looked at me musingly.

  And Mike went over the edge. He called hoarsely, “Bring him in here. We’ll see who’s the best man. We can use the back yard.”

  The challenge was in her eyes now as she looked at me. “Well, Mr. Puma?”

  “Why not?” I said. “It’s been a dull day so far.”

  The back yard served only the rear unit and there was a concrete block wall seven feet high on three sides of it. The house blocked any view from the front.

  The grass was clipped short and it was dry. I took off my shoes, my jacket and my socks. I took off my pistol harness and put that with the holster and the gun on a redwood table near the patio. Mike took off his sport shirt and kicked off his loafers.

  His chest stretched his T-shirt to the limit and his arms were long and impressive. This was no TV wrestler, flying through the air in the phony tackles and blocks, in the highly vulnerable running head rams. This was a man who knew his trade and he could break my arm without stretching the T-shirt any more than he was right now.

  He said grimly, “You can fight any damned way you want to. I’ll wrestle straight unless you pull something raw. Then I’ll show you how many dirty tricks even the decent wrestlers know.”

  “I always fight any damned way I want to,” I told him. “You do the same.”

  From the redwood bench next to the redwood table, Miss Quintana watched with anticipation and obvious pleasure. Was she hoping he would destroy me? Because perhaps, that might destroy an interest in Puma that disturbed her, or shamed her?

  Nobody has ever accused me of having an undernourished ego.

  On the short dry grass in the walled yard we faced each other, Mike and I. If we got in, if he could get a grip on me, it would be curtains. Because he knew about leverage and anatomical vulnerability, about balance and position and strategy. If he got close, would Miss Quintana cheer?

  He moved in, arms hanging in a slight arc, moving his big body with grace and economy, moving with the slowness that preceded the lunge.

  I started with a sucker punch, a right hand lead. It missed the chin but caught him below the eye and the cheek reddened. I caught his nose with a straight left hand and back-pedaled hastily.

  He smiled grimly, proving he wasn’t hurt. He moved implacably toward me and I watched carefully, waiting for the rush.

  He out-foxed me. Quicker than the eye could see, he lashed out with a sweeping left hand toward my face. It was a slap, not a punch, his hand open and his weight behind it. I went stumbling into the concrete block wall.

  And he moved in.

  His hand encircled my right wrist and just the pressure of it sent pain dancing along my forearm. Was that wrestling? He had said he would wrestle straight unless I pulled something raw.

  He hadn’t put it into writing; I had been suckered. I fought to break my wrist clear, working my weight against the thumb, but this was no ordinary thumb, and he started to twist my arm up behind me.

  It was a crucial moment and I needed outside assistance. I lifted the wrist savagely, turning my body as I did, and the back of his gripping hand came in contact with the rough concrete of the wall, and I threw my body into him. He released my hand.

  He grunted and stepped back, glaring at me. Blood seeped through the gashes on the back of his hairy hand, and he shook the hand absently, never taking his eyes from my face.

  I fented a left and caught him with a right hand in the throat. I moved around him like a lightweight, tapping him with the left hand. He smiled, to show his scorn.

  Maybe in the belly? He was no kid. I moved out, in, and hit him with a real cutie, a hook off a step to the right. I hit him smack in his aging belly.

  And bruised the hand. He was no kid, but his belly was. I retreated, moving far from the wall. He turned, and I turned to face him and over his shoulder I could see Miss Quintana on the redwood bench. I thought there was a look of doubt in her brown eyes.

  There was no doubt in Mike’s eyes. He pretended to rush, and then didn’t. He stopped, and suckered me again.

  This time it was a swinging right hand on the end of that long and muscular arm and rocks rattled in my thick head and nausea
welled in my stomach and I forgot caution for the moment.

  I moved in, bringing a right hand up from the grass. It missed the button, but caught his Adam’s-apple, and he went back, gagging, fighting for breath. It can often be a near-lethal blow and as he went to one knee, I banked on that.

  I came in, swinging the big right hand again like an amateur.

  He ducked, and charged, throwing his shoulder into my belly and half-carried, half-shoved me back toward that concrete wall.

  The speed we were moving, I had to avoid that. Even knowing the risk I’d be taking by dropping to the ground, I chanced it, and his big body fell on mine and I thought, now he will still your wonder, Miss Quintana….

  But the fiber of a man is tested by his fight in a lost cause and I must admit modestly I gave no thought to quitting.

  I arched my back as I aimed a chop at his face. His head drew back to avoid it, which arched his body, and I squirmed free under the loss of contact at the fulcrum point.

  I squirmed free and rolled along the grass and reached my feet before he could get to me. And now, for some reason, this was more than a test to me.

  Animosity entered the picture. I hated Mike Petalious. He had never been on my Hit Parade, but I had always half-admired him, and this sudden hate is hard to explain now. Perhaps it was Miss Quintana sitting there on the bench, waiting to see me slaughtered. Or perhaps it was simply my unreasonable Italian blood boiling under competition.

  I came in carelessly but confidently and I tagged him with three lefts, a jab, a straight left and a hook, the first two to the face, the hook to his reddened neck where that sore Adam’s-apple nestled.

  I could guess by his rasping breath that his throat was bothering him and I took the chance that it would affect his wind. I retreated.

  His hands had been up to protect his face; they lowered to wrestling position as he came after me. He was in pain, that much was clear. He was having difficulty getting air down his inflamed and swollen throat.

  I circled, forcing him to circle. I shot a stiff left out, not aiming for the jaw but aiming for the sore Adam’s-apple. He winced as it connected and his step faltered. I continued to circle, and could see by the paleness on his face that this constant circling wasn’t anything he enjoyed.

  I wasn’t here to make him happy. I put a fine right hand to his nose and saw the blood start. I jabbed him off balance and threw the big Sunday punch.

  It was a bull’s-eye and I can say quite modestly that very few professionals would have come up off the floor after that one. But Mike started to.

  His legs were rubber and he would rise a completely defenseless man, but he got to all fours and would have made it the rest of the way from there.

  I waited. Not out of any sense of decency. In this kind of fight, I’ll hit a man when he’s up, down, going down or coming up. I waited only until his chin would come into view because one more light tap would do it.

  Painfully, now, his arms pushed him higher and his head started to raise and I got the right hand ready for the finisher.

  And from the redwood bench, Miss Quintana said, “That will be enough. You’ve proved your point, you — you savage!”

  I turned to see her standing. And in her hand was my gun and the business end of it was pointed right at my stomach.

  “Savage — ” I said. “Whose idea was this? Not mine.”

  Mike, still on all fours, turned to look at her, and then he went down again and rolled over onto his back, his mouth open, his tortured throat sucking for air.

  “You’re a monster,” Miss Quintana said. “Your eyes were the eyes of an insane man. Put on your clothes and get out of here.”

  I smiled at her. The gun was steady in her hand but that didn’t bother me. She wasn’t used to guns. I smiled and said, “Tell me who’s the better man now?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “On his back or on his feet, any time and all the time, he’s my man, and that’s what’s important. Now, get out of here.”

  “Gladly,” I answered. “Why should I stay if you’re a one-man woman?”

  “And he’s a one-woman man,” she said. “Not a stinking tomcat, like some I’ve heard of.”

  I went over to put on my socks. Mike was still on the grass, trying to get air. I said, “If you’ve heard of me you must have asked about me. Do you want to tell me why you asked about me?”

  “Get dressed,” she said, “and shut up.”

  I put on my shoes and went over to get the harness to strap on. I finished that and looked at the gun in her hand. “It fits in the holster here,” I explained. “May I have it now?”

  She stared at it and at me. She said softly, “You have no idea how close I came to using it.”

  “I wasn’t worried,” I said. “You had the safety on. Good luck, Miss Quintana.”

  She stared at me and there was doubt in her face, and I thought I could see the first glimmer of the old wonder. I winked at her.

  She said in a near whisper, “He’s a good man. He’s kind and dependable and gentle and strong.”

  “I’m gentle,” I told her, “and stronger. But I’ll grant you I’m not good or kind or dependable.” I took a breath. “You made the right choice.”

  “Choice …?” she said. “There never was any question of choice.”

  “Yes there was,” I told her gently and left her staring.

  Einar Hansen’s place was closed; I drove on to Dune Street. The ancient Chev was on the lot and I hoped she wasn’t at the beach. It was a cool day but there was no telling with these beach hounds.

  She came to the door in a Hoover apron, her hair wet and her hands stained with henna.

  “Now it can be told,” I said. “You had me fooled.”

  “I’m trying something new. What happened to your face? It’s red.”

  “I was wrestling with my little nephew. How about a beer?”

  “Come in. It’s in the refrigerator. I’ll be through in a minute.”

  I went into the kitchen while she went back to the bathroom. I called, “Do you want a beer, too?”

  “I’ll get it myself when I’m through here. What’s new? Did you see those men again?”

  “Yup,” I said. I took out a can of beer and rummaged through the drawers until I found an opener. I took the can out to the living room.

  “Go on,” she called. “You saw them again and what — ?”

  “And they told me you used to go with Einar Hansen. Then you wearied of him. But last night he spent a couple of hours here and they wondered why.”

  She came to the bathroom doorway, a towel around her head. She stared at me. “Do you think they’ll come back here to bother me?”

  “It’s possible. You could move into my place until this blows over. We wouldn’t have to do anything wrong unless you insisted on it.”

  She took a deep breath. “You simply haven’t one shred of finesse, have you?”

  I said thoughtfully, “You could be right. I’ll bet that’s what the skinny guy at the Palladium had, finesse. I’ll bet that was his secret.”

  “You’re crazy,” she said. “You’re absolutely, positively crazy.”

  “I’m disenchanted,” I answered. “I’m tired and my mind wanders. Fix your hair and we’ll talk sensibly.”

  Her voice was quieter. “What’s wrong, Joe?”

  “Me, you, all the people in this mess. They’re all wrong. I go around and around and get nowhere. I get bruised and bloody, insulted and dismissed, looked down on and lectured.”

  “For money,” she pointed out. “Duncan Guest was no friend of yours. You work for money and I’m sure you charge extra for all those indignities you mentioned.”

  “I charge extra, but it doesn’t quite pay for them. Finish your hair.”

  She came out in a few minutes, her hair bound by a towel. She went to the kitchen and opened a can of beer and brought it out to the living room.

  She sat in a chair on the other side of the room and sipped
the beer. She said, “They must have been watching this place last night. How else would they know about Einar?”

  “They must have been watching,” I agreed. “And now they’re looking for Einar and they can’t find him. Do you know where he is?”

  She shook her head.

  “What did he want with you, last night?” She made a face.

  “Don’t be coy,” I said. “He wanted something besides that. He wanted information, didn’t he?”

  She hesitated, and nodded. “He wanted to be sure I had seen the woman in the mink stole. He wanted to know how I could be sure it was cerulean, when there was no light on the runway out there.”

  “That was a point that bothered me, too. How did you answer it?”

  “Duncan’s lights were on. His door was open and all that light was coming out on the runway.”

  “Just a second,” I said. “His lights weren’t on and the door wasn’t open when I found his body.”

  “I know it. I turned out the light and closed the door.”

  “And didn’t see his body in the bathroom?”

  “That’s right. About half an hour after the girl left, I saw the light was still on and the door open. I went to the door, called to him, and he didn’t answer. I assumed he was gone. So I turned out the light and closed the door.”

  “And why didn’t you tell the police that?”

  “Would you, if you were a girl and you lived here alone and you used to go out with Duncan Guest?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said honestly. “Knowing the police and the newspapers in this town, I guess I wouldn’t.”

  She fiddled with the towel on her head. “He must suspect something, don’t you think? And maybe is trying to make some money out of it?”

  “He doesn’t seem like a blackmailer,” I said.

  “He knows all the wrestlers and all about them. The stories he’s told me — ”

  “You couldn’t tell whom he suspected by his line of questioning?”

  She shook her head gravely. “He’s clever. And as for his being a blackmailer, I think, for enough money, he would be anything.”

  I didn’t answer. It was very quiet for a few moments. She said, “I’m frightened. I wasn’t before, but I am now.”