While I Disappear

by Edward Wright

  “Cassie, that’s just crazy,” he said. “Your uncle is wonderful with horses.” She seemed not to have heard him and looked as if she was about to leave, so he changed the subject.

  “You think you can find your way around this town in that cab? I’ve lived here for years, and I still get lost.”

  “I’ve got a big map,” she said. “And an Indian’s natural sense of direction.”

  “That’s a joke,” he said. “Joseph gets lost as much as I do.”

  “Well, if that ever happens, I’ll just turn to the fare and say, ‘I’m having a little trouble finding it. Do you know the best way to get to this place?’ ”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  “I pull over, kick him out, and go looking for another fare.”

  Horn shook his head. “It’s dangerous out there, Cassie. For anybody driving a cab.”

  She parted her jacket, and he saw the hilt of a sheathed hunting knife at her belt. “I’ve got this,” she said, without apparent concern. “I don’t expect any trouble.”

  He was beginning to feel like her uncle, angered by her risk-taking but powerless to do anything about it. “I guess you don’t want my advice,” he said. “So why did you look me up?”

  “I just wanted to see where you live,” she said. “And….”

  “And what?”

  “The other night at the casino, you acted a little worried about me finding a job and a place to stay. I just wanted to tell you I’m all right, so stop worrying.”

  “In other words, leave you alone,” he said, trying not to sound like a sarcastic parent. Her reasons for looking him up struck him as feeble. He didn’t flatter himself that she enjoyed his company. He wondered idly if she had come in order to find out if he’d uncovered anything about Rose. But she’d asked him nothing about that. Maybe, he thought, this is her way of staying in touch with her uncle.

  “I know where you’re living these days,” he said. “You think that’s smart?”

  “I think Rose would have liked the idea,” Cassie said defiantly. “I’m getting along with everybody there. Even the manager. He told me he saw Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show in Chicago when he was a little boy, and ever since then he’s had a thing for Indian girls in braids and buckskin.”

  Horn was not amused. “I’m glad all this strikes you as funny,” he said. “Just understand that there’s nothing you can do about Rose’s death. If she were here, she’d be telling you the same thing.”

  “Maybe. But if I ask a few questions, what harm does that do?” For the first time, she allowed herself to grin, but the expression bore a touch of wildness. Then it went away, and she looked around, seeming bored. “Like I said, I needed work and a place to stay. Now I’m fixed up.”

  He didn’t want her to leave yet. “So if I ever need a cab, I’ll call you, okay?”

  “You won’t need a cab.”

  “But if I do.”

  She pulled a Yellow Cab card from her pocket. “My hack number’s written on the back.”

  He sighed. “You want to come in for a minute?”

  “No thanks,” she said, heading back to the big De Soto. “Gotta go earn some money.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Italian kid from Philly caught the Mexican with a stinging left hook, sending the sweat flying off his face and almost dislodging his mouthpiece. The Mexican kid was a local favorite, and the crowd’s displeasure echoed off the walls like the bellow of a single animal.

  Horn sat with Emory Quinn about twenty rows from ringside. It was Thursday night, fight night at the Olympic Auditorium, 18th and Grand, and all around them the huge hall pulsed with noise and energy. Fight fans, gamblers, hangers-on, the occasional celebrity, all gabbed and smoked and jostled and yelled at the spectacle of two men pounding each other with padded fists. Near ringside were the French cuffs and the gold watches, the easy-money boys and their women, even a movie star face here and there. The men wore flashy suits, and the women were in night-out regalia. Farther back, where Horn and Quinn sat, both sexes were more casually dressed but no less enthusiastic. About two-thirds of the 15,000 seats were occupied. The air was spiked with the mingled scents of aftershave, perfume, sweat, and mustard, all of it overlaid with the smell of cigarette and cigar smoke, which swam lazily in a dense cloud around the lights above the ring, barely stirred by the ceiling fans.

  The Mexican landed a quick combination, and the crowd loved it. In the early rounds, Quinn had kept up a steady stream of muttering, mostly to himself. Now his inhibitions were gone. “That’s right, stick him!” he yelled. “You’re waiting too long! Whenever he drops the right, use the left!” He bobbed and weaved slightly in his seat, his fists clenched.

  Horn had focused on the fight for the first few rounds, but now he grew restless. Although he had seen many bouts at the Olympic—sometimes with Mad Crow or other friends, sometimes with Iris—tonight he wasn’t here for the boxing. He started to nudge Quinn, but the other man was totally engrossed in the action, so he decided to wait.

  Two more rounds, and it was over: Decision to the hometown boy, a decision loudly endorsed by the crowd. Many began to surge up the aisles toward the rest rooms and hot dog stands, some of them unlimbering silvery flasks from inside jacket pockets.

  The main attraction on the night’s card, a heavyweight bout, was thirty minutes away. Now was a good time, Horn decided. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen him,” he said.

  Quinn’s face shone with sweat and excitement, and it took him a moment to comprehend. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s just that….”

  “I know,” Horn said. “Pretty exciting, huh?”

  “Once you’ve been down there, under the lights, there’s nothing quite like it. Raul could have fought better tonight. He knows the moves, but he hasn’t been training hard lately. He’s got too many people around him telling him how wonderful he is.” Quinn shook his head.

  “Anyway….” He looked around. “No, I haven’t seen him. But if he’s here tonight, he’ll be close to ringside, and it’ll be easier to spot him now that people are out of their seats.”

  “Good.” They both stood up, looking casually around the vast interior.

  “You think ancient Rome was anything like this?” Horn asked.

  Quinn understood the question. “I’m sure it was worse then,” he said. “But they thought they were civilized too, just like we do. Man is an animal with a spiritual side, but still an animal, and boxing appeals to that side of him. I was in another fighter’s corner years ago, and I saw something I’ll never forget. My man was on the ropes, the other man pounding him. Down there at ringside was a beautiful woman, all dressed up. A cut had opened up over my man’s eye, and the blood flew. A drop of it landed on this woman’s glove. I just happened to see it. Her expression when she raised the glove close to her face…. She looked horrified and fascinated all at once. For just a second, she looked as if she wanted to taste it–I think she would have done it if she hadn’t been surrounded by thousands of people. Does that make sense?”

  “I think so,” Horn said. But he was only half listening, because he had noticed something.

  “I hear Lombard hangs out with a big man, kind of a bodyguard.”

  “That’s right. At least he used to.”

  “See that man over there?” Horn pointed to the other side of the ring, where a block-like figure was slowly moving down the aisle. The man was not above average height, but even from that distance, his solidity was apparent. His head appeared too large for his frame. As they watched, he settled himself into the third row, next to a smaller, gray-haired man.

  Quinn stood on tiptoe for a second, studying the big man’s companion, then turned to Horn. “Lombard,” he said.

  “All right,” Horn said. “Let’s do it the way we said.”

  They made their way down the aisle and around the ring. The two men they sought were sitting in the third row. The gray-haired man was talking with a woman who sat beside him.


  Horn held back as Quinn went over and introduced himself. Horn saw the gray-haired man put out his hand without standing. He appeared polite but reserved. Quinn was friendly and animated, trying his best to keep the conversation going. After a while, he turned and motioned Horn over.

  “My friend, John Ray Horn,” he said. “This is Jay Lombard.” Horn put out his hand, reaching past the big man on the aisle, and they shook. Lombard was thin and spare, with a full head of gray-white hair, and his movements were quick and precise. His face was long and somewhat sad, and his eyes were alert and penetrating.

  “Glad to meet you. Ever see this guy fight?” Horn asked, indicating Quinn.

  “Boston? Saw him a lot. Good footwork, I remember. I liked his style. He went up against one of my boys a few times. I think I came out on the short end.” He gestured toward his companions, the woman first. “This is Eden Lamont,” he said, “and Willie Apples.”

  As they shook hands, Horn tried to study the big man without seeming obvious. Willie Apples was about five-ten and well over two hundred, but none of it looked soft. He wore an ill-fitting double-breasted dark gray suit with a tie that looked like an afterthought. His neck bulged away from his collar, and his oversize head, topped by a GI haircut, was not quite symmetrical, as if his birth had been an especially violent occurrence. His features, although coarse, were not unpleasant. His brow was creased, suggesting perpetual worry.

  “Willie wrestled for a while,” Lombard said. “He had some good matches. One time he took on the Swedish Angel right here in this place. But we decided his talents lay in other directions.”

  Willie Apples nodded in agreement. “I was too small to rassle,” he said good-naturedly. “But nobody ever said I wasn’t strong.” He turned his attention to the crowd around them.

  Eden Lamont, Horn noted, was quite possibly the best-looking woman at the Olympic that night. She wore a tricky burgundy gown that left one shoulder bare except for the fox fur stole draped negligently around her, its color dyed an almost exact match to her abundant dark brown hair. The fox, its glassy eyes vacant, nipped its own tail in an endless chase around her neck.

  She looked at Horn closely. “Are you an actor?” she asked.

  “I used to be, ma’am.”

  “But you’re not anymore?”

  “I thought I recognized you,” Lombard interrupted. “You did some westerns. You were away for a while, weren’t you?”

  He’s being diplomatic. “That’s right.”

  “Up north,” Lombard went on. “It’s coming back to me now. You and I just might have some friends in common.”

  “Could be.”

  “Eden’s in the movies too,” he said. “Have you seen the new Danny Kaye?”

  “I don’t go to many musicals.”

  “This is actually more of a comedy than a musical, and you’ll see her in it. She’s one of the Goldwyn Girls. The most beautiful one, I might add.”

  “Stop it, Jay,” she said in a voice that added, But not right away.

  “I can’t argue with that,” Horn said.

  The crowd was returning, and once again the noise level rose.

  “I don’t suppose you all would be interested in going out for a drink afterward,” Horn said casually to Lombard.

  “Why not?” the other man answered. “We could talk boxing and movies and the vagaries of the criminal justice system. And you and I could see how many people we both know. In fact, let’s get out of here right now.”

  “What about the next bout?”

  “I know how that one turns out,” Lombard said with a straight face, waiting for the response.

  “Really?”

  “No, I’m joking. But I’ve got a good idea. Anyway, Raul was the one I came to see tonight. He won, I have money coming to me, and I’m feeling generous. What do you say?” His voice was a pleasant baritone, one that would have gone over well in the courtroom, and every now and then his lugubrious features dissolved in a broad smile. Horn decided that Jay Lombard could be likable.

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll stay for the heavyweights,” Quinn broke in. He and Horn had decided that if Horn was able to attach himself to Lombard, Quinn would find an excuse for not coming along.

  “Too bad,” Lombard said. “Mr. Horn, would you like to ride along with us?”

  “That’s kind of you.” He handed Quinn the keys to the Ford. “Why don’t you take my car?” he said to him. “Just leave it parked in front of the Anchor with the keys stuffed down between the cushions.”

  Outside, they walked a short distance to Lombard’s car, which was parked on the street. A young boy, wearing an Army surplus jacket several sizes too large for him, leaned against it.

  “Anyone bother my car?” Lombard asked him.

  “No, sir,” the boy said.

  “Thank you, young man. Put this together and go buy yourself some nifty clothes.” He handed him half of a two-dollar bill, and the boy took off running.

  “He is now the richest kid on his block,” Lombard said.

  Horn wasn’t listening. He was looking at the car. It was a Duesenberg Model J, long and low, with a bold, standup grill and twin horns riding below the lights. Even the front bumper looked graceful. It was a rich man’s car, and Horn had seen only a couple of them.

  “What do you think?” Lombard asked.

  “This is a beautiful machine.”

  “Well, I like expensive things,” the lawyer said, winking at Eden. “This one was made in ’29. I saw Clark Gable pull up in front of the Trocadero in one of these, and I decided I wanted one too. Shall we go? Willie, kindly take us out to the Strip.”

  Half an hour later Lombard was being greeted warmly at the entrance to Ciro’s on the Sunset Strip. Smooth dance music drifted out from the main room, along with the heady mixture of perfume and alcohol. The maitre d’ looked long and hard at Horn’s cotton sport jacket and tieless sport shirt, but Lombard slipped something into the man’s pocket, and moments later they were shown to a table not far from the dance floor.

  Instead of accompanying them, Willie Apples took up station at the bar, where two men made instant room for him.

  “Have you ever been here?” Lombard asked.

  “Once or twice,” Horn replied, looking around at the gaudy interior—red ceiling, crystal chandeliers, a giant Venetian gondola decoration dominating one wall. Couples danced as the orchestra played a rumba. The crowd looked elegant, many of the men in black tie, women in evening gowns and long gloves. Iris had enjoyed dressing up and going out, and he had occasionally indulged her. But even in his days as a minor celebrity, he had never felt comfortable in nightclubs. Although role-playing was part of his job, nightclubs seemed to be populated with people who played roles as part of life.

  Lombard ordered champagne and began talking about his background. He had an attorney’s courtroom voice, and he told the story with practiced ease. “I grew up in an Italian neighborhood in Chicago,” he said. “My family name was Lombardi until I decided that didn’t look very good on a business card. Where I grew up, you were either in a gang or you were dead, so I joined a gang. I was this little runt of a character, but I learned early on that if you acted tough, people thought of you that way.” He smiled as he set up his punch line. “That also works in the practice of law.”

  Horn recalled Mad Crow’s comment about Lombard as a bootlegger. “So you’re not a violent man.”

  “I don’t resort to it personally,” Lombard answered carefully. “Obviously, some of the people I defend are not so cautious. But I saw enough violence in my first sixteen years to last a lifetime—”

  “Tell him about your ear,” Eden prompted him.

  “This?” Lombard indicated a line of scar tissue, studded with beads of flesh, that ran along the front of his right ear from top to bottom. “Kid a couple of years older than me found me on the wrong street one day, left me with this. He was too big for me to go after, but I knew another kid who was big enough for the job, so I bribe
d him with a half-dozen comic books and a couple of packs of cigarettes. He went after the other guy—a little too enthusiastically. Cut off his ear lobe, brought it back to me in a matchbox.”

  “It must be nice when other people are willing to get their hands dirty for you,” Horn said.

  Lombard gave him a sharp glance. “You could say that. But violence should be a last resort. I always prefer peaceful means. I get paid to flap my lips eloquently and persuade people to see things my way. I’ve tried it both ways, and believe me, it’s much more satisfying to win a victory through reason and rhetoric.” He adjusted the cuff of his shirt enough to allow the cufflink to show. It was a sizable pearl, first cousin to the one pinned to his tie, the one Madge had mentioned. A neatly folded silk handkerchief in his breast pocket was of the same pearl gray, only slightly lighter than the hue of his well-cut wool suit.

  “When I was a kid, I knew Chicago was not for me,” he went on. “I wanted the good life. One day at the market I saw a box of walnuts from California, and on the box was the grower’s label, a painting of this beautiful place of sunshine and palm trees, with a lady dressed in a Spanish outfit. I knew California was for me. A year later I was here.”

  Horn put an appreciative smile on his face as he glanced at Eden. “How did you two meet?”

  “I was visiting the studio,” Lombard said. “Her boss, Mr. Goldwyn, was having a little union trouble and asked my advice. He invited me back to the sound stage to watch them shoot a scene.”

  “It was The Secret Life of Walter Mitty,” Eden said. “The scene in the department store where Danny Kaye’s surrounded by girls who are modeling corsets, and he’s all flustered—”

  “Danny Kaye. A waste of pretty girls, if you ask me,” Lombard broke in.

  “Don’t be unkind, Jay,” she said. “Anyway, I was one of the girls.”