She smiled, teasingly. "You'd rather pay for it. is that it?"
I smiled back, against my will. "That's not what I meant."
She kissed me.
It was kind of a long kiss; and very sweet. Her lips were soft. Warm. Her lipstick was sticky.
"You taste better than a candy apple." I said.
"Have another bite." she said, and I kissed her, and my tongue slid in her mouth and it seemed to surprise her, but she liked it; she must've, because she slid hers in mine.
And that kimono slid off her shoulders and my hands were on her cool, pale flesh. Her body was soft as her lips, but muscular, too; almost a dancer's body. Her breasts weren't large- just nice handfuls; pretty handfuls with small, little-girl nipples, the areola not much bigger 'round than a piece of Lifesaver candy, with a nipple where the hole would be.
She began to undress me, kissing me while she did, and I helped, and soon we were under the covers in the four-poster. We lay kissing, petting, then as I was about to get on her, she said, "Wait."
"Do you want me to use something?" I asked. I had a Sheik in my billfold.
"No," she said, getting out of bed, going to her makeup table and switching off the lamp. She went out of the room and into the bathroom and came back with a towel, which she lay on the bed, positioning herself on it. then with a pixie smile reached a hand up and turned on the electric moon.
I tried to enter her gently, but it was difficult; she was small, tight.
"Am I hurting you?"
"No." she said. Kissing me. Smiling at me like a ghostly angel.
And I was in all the way.
It was only a few minutes, but it was a wonderful few minutes, and when she came, a moan came out of her that had pain and pleasure in it but transcended both; I came a moment later, withdrawing, spilling onto the towel she'd positioned herself on.
"No," she said, sadly, touching my face. "You should've stayed in me."
I eased off, looked at her; I was on my side. "I thought you wanted me to," I said, and motioned toward where the towel was.
She smiled enigmatically and said, "No. That's not what it was for."
She gathered the towel and got up from the bed: she didn't mean for me to see, but I did: the towel was bloodstained.
I leaned back, waiting for her to return. Oh, I thought, she's in her period
Then I realized something.
She came back, got in bed, got into my arms.
I looked at her; she still had that cryptic little smile.
"You were a virgin," I said.
"Who says?"
"I say. You were a virgin!"
"Does that matter?"
I pushed her away, gently; sat up.
"Of course it does," I said.
She sat up, too. "Why are you disturbed?"
"I would never have…"
"That's why I didn't tell you."
"But you can't be a virgin."
"I'm not."
"Don't play games."
"I'm not."
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-three."
"And you're an actress living in Tower Town, sharing a studio with some fairy artist and seeing a psychiatrist and talking about free love and living not existing, and you were a virgin?"
"Maybe the right man finally came along."
"If you did this so I'd keep looking for your brother, all I've got to say is, it's maybe the one bribe nobody in Chicago ever thought of before."
"It wasn't a bribe."
"Do you- love me or something. Mary Ann?"
"I think that's maybe a little premature. What do you think?"
"I think I better find your brother."
She snuggled close to me. "Thanks. Nathan."
"I can't look into it again for a few weeks. I've got some other business to do- Retail Credit work and then I'm going to Florida on a matter."
"That's fine, Nathan."
"Aren't you sore?"
"About what?"
"No, I mean aren't you sore? You know. Down there."
"Why don't you find out."
The electric moon smiled.
Cold hit Chicago like a fist. The wind conspired with the falling temperature and turned the city to ice: then eleven inches of snow joined in. turning it white. Those people in the Hoovervilles I'd talked to not so long ago probably made it through okay, because they at least had shacks to live in and sometimes a barrel with something burning in it to huddle 'round. But the down-and-outers in the parks froze. To death. Not all of them, but enough of them- though it didn't get much play in the papers. Not good publicity in the year of the fair. Of course the major role the papers played in the lives of the down-and-outers was insulation: wear it over your heart if you hope to wake up in the morning. I wondered if the guy who'd passed that piece of wisdom along to me had woken up this morning.
Me. I was in Florida, wearing a white suit, soaking up the sun, smelling the salt breeze. Men on the streets were in shirt sleeves and straw? hats; women wore summery dresses and tanned legs. The buildings were as white as Chicago's blizzard- though the similarity ended there- and the palm trees along Biscayne Boulevard leaned, as if bored with sunshine. Mayor Cermak should get in town late this afternoon; the blond man Frank Nitti was sending to meet Cermak might already be here.
The first thing I did. when I got off the Dixie Express at a little after seven on this Wednesday morning, was pay a cabbie to take me to the nearest used car lot. A guy in his shirt sleeves with a gold incisor that reflected the Miami sun sold me a '28 Ford coupe for forty dollars. It didn't exactly run like a million bucks- it ran like forty bucks- but it ran, and soon I was having a look around the Magic City.
It was a synthetic paradise, like a movie's elaborate background painting that was supposed to fool you into thinking it was real, but didn't quite make it- and you didn't quite care, because there was a charm to it. to the ice-cream buildings, the transplanted tropical foliage, the bay so blue it made the sky seem not blue enough, the skyline that rose off the flat terrain like Chicago in the imagination of an eight-year-old child. Twenty years ago, this was mangrove swamp, sand dunes, coral rock. Jungle. Now it was a playground for the rich, and the only sign of anyone remembering it having been a jungle was the pith helmets worn by the cops directing traffic, their uniforms pale blue, belted white.
Despite hard times, Miami seemed to be doing good business. On showy Biscayne Boulevard, the palm-lined four lane that ran parallel to the sprawling, tropically landscaped Bayfront Park, cars with license plates from all forty-eight states (including, at times, Florida) could be spotted, by anyone so inclined. The shopping district, west of Bayfront Park, was a dozen blocks of predominantly narrow, one-way streets and was a Florida version of Maxwell Street and State Street, slapped together: open-front shops sold fruit boxes and juice, and neckties with colorful hand-painted designs, and ashtrays the shape of the state; department-store manikins lounged in display windows, wearing swimsuits and sunglasses, and contemplated tossing the beach ball around; photo galleries invited patrons to pose before cardboard seashores while holding up a huge stuffed fish and leaning against what purported to be a palm; Seminole families in full tribal regalia sat in curio shops to attract the curious (and their money); theater doormen in elaborate paramilitary' attire hawked the latest screen thrill, while comer pitchmen offered suntan lotion and racing forms- the latter an especially hot commodity'. As I waited for the light to change on Flagler Street, a newsboy about ten years my elder sold me a Miami Herald, but when I said I didn't want a racing form too. he save me a look like I'd said I didn't like women.
I didn't see many down-and-outers as I strolled around downtown Miami, but there were some women in their thirties in pretty summer frocks, housewives I'd guess, who approached occasional paleface tourist types like myself, requesting "a penny a day to keep hunger away from somebody out of a job"; they weren't begging for themselves, of course- the little boxes they earned said "Dade County Welf
are Board." Another woman, this one in her forties, but also rather nicely dressed, approached me and handed me a leaflet; she was with the Citizens Taxation Committee- despite falling property values, taxes were being kept at "Boom" levels of earlier years, it seemed.
"Something must be done about the mayor," she said, with her mouth a firm line, her eyes hard behind wire-frames.
I nodded agreement, and went into a restaurant called the Dinner Bell, where I had roast beef, peas, coffee, and apple pie for fifteen cents. A blond guy was sitting at a table nearby, drinking lemonade; he wore a white short-sleeve shirt and gray suspenders and buff trousers, and was about the right age. But he wasn't the blond guy I was looking for. Neither were half a dozen other blond men who passed me on the street that I save as careful a once-over as I had him.
It wouldn't be that easy. I wanted it to be- I wanted to just bump into the blond killer on the street and put my gun in his back and duck him into an alley and slam his head into a wall and, if he was walking around unarmed (which he might be, till he closed in on his target), plant my gun in his pocket and drop him off anonymously on the doorstep of a hospital or a police station, like an unwanted babe. His packing a pistol would be enough to assure him a few days at the expense of Dade County, which should keep him out of circulation till Cermak headed home.
Or I could hang a close tail on him, let him lead me to his hotel. That would allow me to see if he was working with a backup man, in which case I'd plant the gun on the blond and sic a cop on him, and the backup man would probably fade away. As for any confrontation with the blond himself, the best thing would be to clobber him from behind, bad enough to put him in the hospital, but not kill him; another possibility was holding him captive in his room (and running up his room service bill while I did) till Cermak left town. But an approach like that would mean he'd see me, get a good look at me. and the backup man (if there was one) would probably have to be dealt with head on, too, all of which could have nasty repercussions concussion seemed the better approach.
The gun I'd plant on him, incidentally, would not be mine: it would be the.38 Colt Police Special that had been delivered to my office by messenger, along with my train tickets, five hundred dollars expense money, and a letter from the office of Florida's attorney general authorizing Nathan Heller to operate as a private investigator in Florida (including a temporary gun permit). Attorney Louis Piquett apparently had some friends in high places in Florida- or rather Al Capone did. Despite some public posturing by state and city officials when he showed up in Florida, around '28, Capone had been a welcome addition to the community- in fact, a fellow named Lummus, Miami's mayor at the time, was the real estate agent who sold Capone a mansion on Biscayne Bay.
There was no explanation as to why the gun had been sent; none was needed. Capone assumed there was at least the possibility of my killing the man I'd been sent to stop; toward that end. he'd provided something that couldn't be traced to me. I took my automatic along as well, having immediately had the thought of using the Piquett-furnished gun as a plant, should I happen upon the blond gunman prior to any attempt on Cermak's life.
Which was a fantasy I'd nurtured all the way down here on the Express, sitting by the window, watching the midwestern snow dissolve into the bluegrass of Kentucky; crossing rivers, cutting through valleys, skirting mountains, stopping at cities. An American panorama slid by me, and I saw it all… and none of it, because I was thinking about that blond assassin.
And now I was walking the crowded downtown streets of Miami, realizing how futile my fantasy was. There was only one way to do this job; I'd known it all the time, but had pretended not to. I had to shadow Cermak and wait till the blond showed up; in effect, wait until the attempt on Cermak's life was about to be made. And then stop it.
It was risky, to say the least: for Cermak. certainly, but for me, too. The smart thing to do would've been to turn this assignment down. Only it was never smart to turn Al Capone down. It was also never smart to turn down ten thousand dollars, which is what my client had promised me, after all- on the minor condition that I succeed.
So I did some groundwork. I got back in my forty-buck Ford and crossed the county causeway, passing by Palm Island (where the Capone masion was), white sunlight bouncing off pleasure-craft-cluttered Biscayne Bay. Then I was on the ten-mile-long, considerably narrower island that was Miami Beach, following Collins Avenue north through a collage of pseudo-Mediterranean hotels and apartment houses and mansions that (of course) faced the beach, with accompanying terraces and swimming pools (for those who found the Atlantic too crowded or salty or whatever). I rolled by white sand splashed with color by sun umbrellas and bathing-suited figures that scurried to and from cabanas bigger than my office back home; and glimpsed golf courses, private landing docks, the bougainvillea-spread walls of palatial estates, and palm-sheltered coves where yachts moored and speedboats raced. No Hoovervilles, though.
In a subdivision off Collins Avenue, away from the Atlantic and toward a placid lagoon called Indian
Creek, were some comparatively modest homes, not mansions, just vacation bungalows with a meager three or four bedrooms. One of these homes, which were spaced rather far apart with well-tended but not overly tropical front yards, was the winter home of Mayor Cermak's son-in-law, a doctor who, not coincidentally, had recently been appointed Illinois Director of Public Health. A rather modern-looking single-level stucco house, set back from the street and partially obscured by shrubs and palms, this was where Cermak was likely to be staying. I parked my car on the street and walked up the lawn, where a gardener was working on the shrubs by the house.
"Hello," I said.
The gardener, a dark little bowlegged man in coveralls and a floppy hat, turned and glanced at me with a moronic smile and kept clipping the hedge as he did.
"I'm with the Miami Herald," I said. "I was wondering when Mayor Cermak is expected."
"He come pretty soon," the man said. Cuban?
"How soon?"
"Tonight sometime." He kept clipping.
"Is anybody home?"
"They not down here."
Who?"
"The family. They in Chicago."
"Okay. Thanks."
He smiled some more, and then started looking at what he was doing.
I went back to the Ford. So much for Cermak's own security: that guy would've told John Wilkes Booth where Lincoln was sitting. On the other hand. Cermak would undoubtedly have a fleet of bodyguards with him. and security would be stepped up once he moved in.
Next stop was Coral Gables, which joined Miami on the west and, while not as overtly wealthy as Miami Beach, was a well-to-do little community. Some overly zealous city planner had put in a cream-color stucco archway you drove under as you "entered," limited the buildings to a mock-Spanish design, stuck matching awnings on everything, and tinted the sidewalks coral. The Miami Biltmore Hotel loomed above this contrived, palm-bordered landscape, a sprawling hacienda gone out of control, with a central tower adjoining an assortment of wings to face in a gently curving C the putting greens that were its lawn.
The attendant who took my car didn't seem to believe I could be staying at a place this grand; neither could I.I hauled my shabby suitcase across a lobby of potted palms and overstuffed furniture and potted, overstuffed politicos, who were scattered about the lobby in groups of three to six, smoking cigars, laughing, talking loud, having the grand sort of time the victors have when they've been dividing up the spoils.
FDR's right-hand man. Jim Farley- who was to be his postmaster general, and was currently his patronage chief- was not among the Demos loitering about the Biltmore lobby. But his presence was felt: between puffs of cigar and dirty stories were speculations about who would get what, and it was Farley these men were in Miami to see. It was Farley who was Cermak's target.
I had a reservation, and a bellboy took me up to a room with a double-bed and a view of the golf course. It was two in the afternoon; I called the desk and
asked for a wake-up call in two hours. I went to sleep immediately, and when the phone rang, I jumped awake. But I felt rested.
I shaved and threw water on my face and got back into the white suit: I had a Panama and sunglasses, too. I looked like a few thousand other people in Miami. I left my suitcase in my suite, but took the two guns with me, my automatic in my shoulder holster (it didn't bulge much under the coat) and the.38 in my belt, where its short barrel nudged my lower belly.
The train station was in downtown Miami, on First off Flagler, near the majestic Dade County Courthouse, a big Gothic wedding cake of a building whose layers rose twenty-eight stories. The Florida East Coast Railway Station, on the other hand, was a long, low-slung mustard-color wood-and-brick affair with an arched overhanging roof from which a large sign said MIAMI, in case you forgot what town you were in: a dinosaur of a building left over from pre-boom Miami, a frontier-style station where you might expect to catch a stagecoach instead of a train. I left the Ford in the parking lot in back and wandered inside, where I bought a Miami Daily News at the newsstand, and found a place on the end of one of the slatted high-backed benches where I could get a view of all doors, and could sit and pretend to read while I watched and waited.
It was five, and Cermak was due in at six. The place was pretty empty when I first got there, but began to fill up quickly with others who. like me. were meeting folks arriving on the Royal Poinciana. which was what the Dixie Flyer out of Chicago turned into at Jacksonville.
I saw several pretty young women- white teeth flashing in tanned faces, tanned legs flashing under colorful print dresses- and exchanged flirty smiles with those who weren't arm in arm with a sweetheart, and a few who were, when the sweetheart wasn't looking. It occurred to me that this wouldn't be a bad town to get laid in. Unfortunately, every time I saw a blonde, it reminded me of my quarry; and every time I saw a dark-haired girl- particularly one with short dark hair- I thought of Mary Ann Beame.
That blond killer hadn't been the only thing my mind had turned over and over, obsessively, on the train ride to Miami. Mary Ann Beame was dancing around my brain like Isadora Duncan; she'd really done a job on me. I hadn't been with that many women. I was no virgin, of course- but I thought the same of her. And it disturbed me. I thought maybe I was in love with her. I also thought she was using me. like an actor in a play she was directing in the little theater of her mind. I never wanted to see her again; I wished I was with her now.
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