Jailbird Detective

by Helen Jacey

  ‘What?’ I didn’t want to know. The penny dropped. It could mean only one thing. He thought I was eavesdropping. I smiled, hiding fear. ‘I’m not a reporter, sir.’

  ‘Yeah, right. Ain’t the first to try it in here, and you sure won’t be the last to sashay up to the bar and play dumb.’ He snarled at me before turning to his buddies. ‘Hey, guys. Reckons she ain’t no reporter.’

  Someone laughed, but somebody else shouted, ‘Let the lady drink in peace, Jim.’

  I had no choice but to open the paper again. Concentrate hard. Pray that this Jim, if that was his name, would forget me.

  No chance. ‘Who you working for?’

  ‘Nobody, sir. I’m just a secretary. Well, learning to be one.’ Damn! It just came out. I could not get into anything with this jerk. It was a funny time to notice dried egg yolk on his lapel.

  ‘Yeah, where?’

  ‘De Lane’s. The secretarial college, across the street. I’m new in town.’

  The bartender, polishing glasses, watched the situation, but his eyes viewed me with distrust. Simple. If I was snooping, he didn’t want to antagonize his core clientele. I finished my drink, opened Violet’s bag and grabbed some coins.

  ‘Going someplace?’

  ‘Gotta make tracks,’ I grinned.

  As I stood up, he stood up, blocking my way. ‘Not so fast. I want to see what’s in that purse, newsgirl.’

  I froze. What did I have on me? My passport. Not helpful, as Connie Sharpe had absolutely no other record of existence in America. On the boat over, I’d concocted the story of Connie Sharpe’s staid life to the random sailors and wounded GIs, but it wouldn’t stack up under any serious scrutiny. I also had a few of Billy’s dollars. Pristine and authentic-looking but no doubt as bogus as hell. These alone could sink me, never mind the phony identity.

  Only got yourself to blame. You picked the gamble.

  ‘All right, Jim. Leave her alone.’

  The voice came from behind. I looked up to see a pair of bright turquoise eyes, fixed on my assailant. His hair was dark, slicked back, his skin very pale. His nose was prominent, marring what could have been film star looks. The tie was loud, with bright geometric patterns. His long, pale fingers clasped Jim’s shoulder, rather like the talons of an eagle.

  Was it my imagination or did he jerk his head in the direction of the door? A subtle signal to me to leave?

  You don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, so I didn’t. I slipped past, lowering my eyes.

  Time to scram.

  Out on the street, I took a deep breath, walking fast, my heart pounding. Forget stenography classes. I headed for the bustle on Broadway. Idiot! And what a creep. If a real Connie Sharpe had wandered in, needing a drink, what kind of treatment was that from Jim the jerk?

  Career girl? I was in no hurry to take orders from a man behind a desk, doing the same thing day in, day out, fixing on a smile with my makeup each morning and bringing him coffee, and all for a miserable wage. I’d managed to avoid it all my life so far, and I wasn’t about to start now. I hadn’t jumped bail and risked hanging for that. I hadn’t made a lifelong enemy of Little Italy for that.

  No, sirree.

  16

  The rippling Pacific shimmered against the widest strip of pale sand I’d ever seen. Palm trees swayed on the esplanade, their shadows dancing across Pacific Drive. There were more open-tops down here, cruising along the coast road. People looked relaxed and happy – even the drunken sailors asleep on the hot sand, killing time before their trains back home, their skin already tanned from long tours. Some played volleyball, stripped off to their shorts.

  I kept walking to find an emptier section of the beach. The palms were unkempt, like leggy dancing girls with dried grass skirts. I kicked off my shoes and peeled down my stockings, stuffing them in my bag. The sand felt hot, the tiny grains massaging my soles. I ran to the frothy surf. The icy water lapped my feet and calves.

  Pure bliss.

  I paddled along the edge of the water for about half a mile.

  Finally, I found a patch of sand, sat down and had a cigarette.

  Something splashed my cheek. I sat bolt upright. Rain. I must have slept for hours as purple clouds had smothered the setting sun. The beach was deserted. A storm threatened and the wind was up, blowing up sand. I ran under a wooden shelter, watching raindrops lash the sea, and stayed there, smoking, until the rain turned to a light mist. My skin prickled, slightly sunburnt. Even if it hurt later, it had been worth it.

  Soon the dark sky and the sea merged into one, the reflection of the moon became a giant double brooch pinned on inky velvet.

  When I got back to the Miracle Mile, the place almost felt like home. I was even looking forward to seeing June and catching up on the latest in the wardrobe department.

  I tiptoed into the room, only to trip on the pink rug. I giggled. ‘Oops-a-daisy!’

  June was on the bed, sitting up, a book in her lap. She must have dozed off.

  I peeled off my damp jacket. I wouldn’t tuck her in; she could sort herself out when she woke up, as she no doubt would in that position.

  As I was undressing, I heard a loud sniff.

  ‘Oh. You awake? Sorry. I was trying to be quiet.’

  I took my cigarettes out of my pocket. They were damp and I inwardly cursed. Then a loud sob came out of the darkness. I inwardly groaned.

  ‘Hey! What’s up?’ Some boy had probably jilted her. I was in no mood to play agony aunt. The night before I got my own room, as well.

  June whimpered and turned on her side, curling her knees up to her chest. The book, a Bible, slipped into her lap.

  ‘Boy trouble? Take my advice. Fuck them all. Not literally.’ I laughed at my bad joke. I knew June was a virgin.

  ‘No.’ Her voice was hoarse.

  An odd chemical smell wafted by. Antiseptic? I knew it from somewhere. A distant memory. A painful operation. Another prison experience I’d blocked out.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ I went over to the space that divided our beds and looked down at June. Her eyes stared at me, glassy orbs in the dark, like marbles. Her cheeks were puffy from crying. Her hand clutched her wrist. Some kind of cloth was wrapped around it.

  ‘What’s happened? June. What have you done?’

  June’s voice was hoarse. ‘I tried to finish it all…I couldn’t do it.’ She burst into tears.

  17

  In the low light, the gold words THE BIBLE shone like a bad joke. Calmly, I took the book from her lap and placed it on the bedside table. Then I flicked on the lamp to inspect the damage, sitting down on the edge of the bed. I picked up her wrist. A white hanky was roughly tied around it and the blood had seeped through but hadn’t drenched it. No torrential flood, then.

  ‘You really tried to kill yourself?’

  I unpeeled the sodden hanky to see a small surface cut in the flesh. A cry for help kind of cut, not a real ‘I can’t take it anymore’. Her wound could do with a stitch but it wasn’t going to get one, at least not by me taking her to the Emergency Room. I remembered there were bandages in the bathroom cabinet. ‘I’m going to fix this up.’

  In the basin, I found a roll of cotton wool and the bottle of antiseptic, lying on its side, most of its contents down the plughole. That explained the smell, and I could take it as assurance June had already regretted her decision. A brand-new box of adhesive bandages sat in the cabinet.

  I used the bandages to push the skin together. June stared ahead with puffy eyes. At one point, she winced. Saliva dripped from the side of her mouth. A magenta shade of lipstick was smeared over her face. I’d never seen her wearing any make-up before and now she was plastered in the stuff. She’d done a useless job of it.

  What comfort could I give to her? Sorry you’ve got no boyfriends? Sorry you feel like a failure? If she was such a mush she could pack up and take the first bus to wherever and run back to Mommy.

  For lack of something more consoling to do, I found a tumbler and filled it
from the pitcher of water on her bedside table. ‘Here. Drink. Need a painkiller?’ I remembered the rest of Billy’s morphine tablets. One of those would knock her out and spare me having to deal with this, but she shook her head. I held the glass to her mouth and she guzzled, her hand clutching mine like an invalid would. Even this irritated me. I hadn’t come to L.A. to play nurse.

  June lay back. ‘I sometimes pose…for portraits.’

  ‘What do you mean? For artists? Painters?’ Was she a life model? I could see June’s Rubenesque physique being the type artists like to draw.

  She looked down, unable to meet my eyes. ‘No. For private… magazines.’

  ‘What? You mean…nude?’

  Her eyes filled with shame. ‘Just topless. Some guys like chubby girls. And the pictures, they make me feel pretty. And it pays good. How else can I afford this place?’ June’s salary was a pittance. I had assumed family somewhere was helping her to make ends meet.

  ‘So what’s the matter?’ I acted blasé, but I was stunned. This was a side to June that, frankly, amazed me.

  ‘He wanted me to do…total nudity. I said no. Said he didn’t want to pressure me into anything. He was being real nice to me. Said I could go home, and he’d pay me anyway this time. He gave me a drink to make up for it. I felt bad for wasting his time. I don’t touch liquor but a drop, to make things better. Next think I know, I wake up, groggy. I must have passed out.’

  June’s hand grabbed my arm. ‘When I get back here, I see that one of my stockings wasn’t fixed like I do it.’

  ‘You think he stripped you? While you were unconscious?’

  June looked at me. She nodded. ‘I don’t know what else he did.’

  ‘So he has a make-up girl?’

  June shook her head. ‘Why?’

  ‘You haven’t seen your face?’

  Another shake. My mind was now busy picturing all kinds of scenarios. ‘Anything hurt, other than your wrist?’

  She knew what I meant. ‘No. Not down there. I just feel sick.’

  Since June was a virgin, surely she’d be feeling it now if he had raped her. So she could have got off lightly. She’d stooped low to pay for a Beverly Hills life, and got burned. Surely she’d seen enough in this town to know who and what to avoid? It was not my problem if she couldn’t tell a sadist from a church mouse, couldn’t look out for herself in the big bad city, and flashed her titties at creeps.

  I spoke calmly. ‘So he could have taken advantage of you and drugged you. Maybe’s he’s taken some nudie snapshots. Plenty of perverts out there, but consider it a lesson learned, right? Don’t hurt yourself over a jerk like that. A case of spilt milk.’ My voice was ugly and terse. Maybe move out to a cheaper boarding house, I wanted to say, but didn’t. This was not my problem.

  In answer, June suddenly lurched over the bed and vomited all over the carpet. I grabbed her hair and held it up as she retched. It was like returning the favor to all those inmates who had done the same for me over the years. After, she lay back, sobbing. ‘I’m sorry, Connie.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’ There was nothing else to say. I got some tissues from the bathroom and began to mop up the mess. Now I just wanted out. I said, ‘Did you know this creep?’

  ‘A while. Some extra…Shiralee…something…told me he was looking for girls. Big girls…like me.’

  ‘So he’s taken your picture before?’

  She nodded. ‘A few times. What if…?’ She burst into tears. ‘I can’t show my face in town! What am I gonna do?’

  I sat down on the edge of my bed and lit a damp cigarette. It smoldered weakly. I stubbed it out in the baby deer ashtray. Its dark eyes loomed up at me, equally pathetic.

  What if June really was suicidal? How could I really know? What would Dr. Lucinda Seldon do, for instance, the only role model I had for something like this? It was pointless to conjecture. I was no do-gooding, sensible Seldon. I went over to the window, watching the rain lash against the pane. ‘You can tell the police.’ I said. ‘Do it in the morning. Go down to the nearest precinct and make a statement. You’ve got the guy’s address. They can deal with it.’

  Do it when I’ve gone, and gone for good.

  And then came the predictable plea. ‘Will you come with me?’

  ‘Sure,’ I lied. ‘Now go to sleep.’ I walked back to the lamp and gave her a smile. ‘You’ll be fine. I promise.’ But the police wouldn’t get very far. Even if they busted the place, he’d have a system for hiding his pornographic material. Nothing illegal in nude photos, if the model consented. I assumed. I didn’t know the laws here.

  June curled up. ‘Thank you, Connie. You’re a real pal.’

  A real pal.

  No. Somebody else would have to be that. Somebody else could go with her, pick up the pieces, be a decent friend.

  Dede Dedeaux, June’s wealthy pal on the Fourth floor. June seemed to like her enough.

  After a few minutes, I heard her breathing slow down. I quietly packed my things into my case.

  On an impulse, I left the Jacques Faliere gown behind. She needed it more than I did.

  As I went to turn off the lamp, another embroidered motto on a cushion caught my eye. ‘A fair-weather friend leaves holes to mend.’

  18

  I left my suitcase by the fire escape and slipped upstairs to the fourth floor. It was a little like entering heaven, another world. Everything was white and pearly. The floor was solid white marble inlaid with some kind of gold mosaic tiles. There was a silky runner with an emerald swirling design and gold edges. The brass rail was brighter than the ones downstairs. One thing stood out immediately – there were hardly any doors up here. Just two.

  Dede Dedeaux must be one rich bitch to rent out the entire floor.

  I rapped on the one door that had a brass knob and a peephole. I did my best to look anxious, knowing somebody on the outside was giving me the onceover. Then the door opened a crack.

  I recognized the dark eyes immediately. The maid. The one that had stared at me in the lobby on the first day. Now she was busily tying up the belt of a simple plaid dressing gown over what looked like a rather nice piece of French lace edging her nightgown. Her wide arched brows framed her luminous dark brown pools of eyes.

  I said, ‘Is Dede Dedeaux in?’

  ‘She’s asleep, ma’am. It’s one in the morning.’

  ‘All right. Hey, could she look in on June in the morning? She’s not doing so well.’

  ‘Our Miss June, downstairs? What’s the matter?’ Her voice had a husky softness to it. It matched the expensive silvery flock paper that lined the walls.

  ‘She’s kind of low. Boy trouble, I think. She said something like that. Think she got tipsy. Could somebody check on her in the morning? I’ve got to rush.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. You’re the one rooming with her? Mrs. Sharpe, right?’ Her eyes roved over my face. ‘Saw you the day you checked in.’ You looked like trouble then, she could have said. Her eyes certainly did. ‘So you’re just leaving her? After she shared her room with you and all?’

  ‘The thing is, one of my relatives is sick so I’m leaving for good tonight. I won’t be needing my own room after all.’

  If this got back to June, it would be a surprise to her – I’d never mentioned family.

  ‘Thought your husband was dead.’ Damn! Of course, the maid had heard the whole interaction when I arrived. ‘Now you found some family all of a sudden?’

  ‘Turns out I do.’

  ‘All right. So what’s really up with June? Considering she don’t date or drink.’ Her eyes bored into mine and I squirmed.

  ‘I said, I don’t know exactly. She’s asleep now. She’ll probably be fine.’

  The maid opened the door wider. ‘You know, I think Miss Dedeaux would like a word after all. Shouldn’t take long.’

  ‘I can’t. Listen, the room’s unlocked if you want to go down. I’m sorry I’ve got to dash but I got no choice.’

  I’m a fair-weather friend.
Can’t you take a hint?

  I avoided her eyes and hurried back the way I came.

  I sneaked out of the Miracle Mile in the dead of night. The rain pelted my face. June had joked that Hollywood raindrops were the tears of all the starlets in L.A. crying with disappointment at once. It was a line I suspected she’d overheard at the studio and thought it smart to repeat.

  Life had taught me one rule about survival. If you grew up around Bad Things, you could handle the inevitable blows better. People like June, with cosseted, overprotected lives, who hadn’t been starved, beaten or abandoned, they were the ones that fell the hardest. No scar tissue equaled zero protection. The trauma cut deeper. Now June would live with a fault line right through her. A fault line of shame.

  It wasn’t fair, but neither was life.

  Sooner anyone learned that the better.

  19

  There were no taxis. I’d have to walk a few blocks and see if things improved. It was raining again, and soon I was drenched through and cold.

  A distant, lonely car swooshed through the night streets. I crossed the wide boulevard, deciding on a hotel. Somewhere, the bar was still open where I could forget all about my failed attempt at playing the grieving widow turned wannabe career girl.

  I passed an elegant fur shop and stopped under its hard canopy. A security grill formed a diamond-shaped black lattice cage, behind which were mannequins draped in sable and mink. No fakes here, just the real deal. I didn’t buy real fur, like I didn’t eat meat. Animals had no say. Kids don’t, either. At least I could fight back now. Animals didn’t have a chance.