by Helen Jacey
No prints except from dumb old me.
Dede butted in. ‘If I have a record? I don’t.’ She smirked. ‘Anyway, you think I’d have given a total stranger a registered gun?’
27
The taxi crawled through a sleazy-looking district, a good few miles west of Downtown. A mixed area with clothing factories, cheap apartment blocks going up behind big hoardings, cemented wastelands between plots, and a main drag with some bars, a club or two, a snooker hall, a coffee shop or four, all draining each other’s profits. South London had similar parts. Once in, you never got out. I remembered Seldon’s caution to avoid lowlife. Lauder clearly had a very different approach to ex-offenders.
We drove on. Now we were in a black neighborhood. Guys in zoot suits hung around late-night barber shops. Jazz wailed from clubs. People were spilling out, having a good time, and the night felt electric.
The Astral Motel was no Miracle Mile. No uniformed doormen here. Just a low-rent establishment that wouldn’t know the meaning of full occupancy. It was a flimsy-looking two-story affair, shaped like a U around a courtyard. It had probably been hurriedly erected to cater for the swarms of midwestern actors who traded the Dust Bowl for a sprinkling of stardust. A flaking paint sign declared the empty swimming pool was empty ‘for repairs’.
As I entered the front office, a young man looked up. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen. His mouth was full, his hand in a bag of candy. He stopped himself, caught in the act, with soft, childlike eyes. Swing music came from a radio behind the desk. He turned the wireless down and shuffled up. ‘Can I help you, ma’am?’ He was too polite to say, ‘What’s a haggard white lady doing in here?’
‘I think I’ve got a reservation.’
‘Oh, right. Mr. Clarence said you’d be arriving tonight, ma’am.’
Mr. Clarence? Who was he? I stopped myself from asking questions and played along. ‘That’s right. How much?’
‘Oh, your room’s paid up, ma’am.’
What?
‘Name, please, ma’am?’ Shit! I remembered Lauder’s command to rename myself. I must have been staring because he smiled patiently. ‘For the register.’
I blurted the one thing to come to me. ‘Elvira.’ Elvira had given me hope. Maybe she could again.
‘I’m Malvin. You need anything, I’ll do my best to be of service.’ He smiled, all amiability. Malvin began to write in a column, with large handwriting. There were a few other names of guests. Fake, to dupe me? I had no idea.
I needed a surname. Favorite color? Purple. Ridiculous. Worst color? Gray? No. Far too depressing. Too Holloway Prison. Slate. Slate gray, like the smoke that had engulfed my dreams and got me into this trouble.
I would never forget the lesson in that.
Elvira Slate. Help and hindrance. That about summed my new identity up.
‘Elvira Slate.’
Malvin studied the keys, hanging in a box, deciding which room. His fingers grabbed one and passed it to me. Number five. ‘Miss Slate, room five’s nice and near to the office, so you ain’t got far to walk if you need anything. I go to lunch by noon most days. We’ve got a coffee shop around the corner – Tina’s – and a grocery store, Ebenezer’s. Do you have a car, ma’am?’
‘Not right now.’
‘You can take the Yellow Car Downtown. Takes about twenty minutes.’
‘Thanks.’
Malvin smiled sweetly. ‘Oh, Mr. Clarence left something for you.’ Malvin bent down and came back up holding an envelope. I thanked him and took it.
I ventured into my room, a mustard affair. The worn carpet was probably once gold, now dulled from the drunken shuffling of too many travelling salesmen. The decorators had been sloppy and yellow paint drips had dried into the carpet.
I ripped the envelope open. Twenty bucks. Enough to feed myself for a week or so, without dipping into the last of my fake currency that Lauder didn’t know about.
There was a rudimentary kitchen area, with a dented kettle and a small ring for cooking. The fridge was clean but made a buzzing noise as if it was about to keel over. The previous occupant had left a bottle of root beer inside. It was half empty. I picked it up and drained the smelly brown ale in the sink. It didn’t flow away as fast as it should. I ran the faucet and brown water spluttered over me.
A pair of dice sat next to chipped china salt and pepper pots in the shape of pineapples. Pineapples with cute faces. One had the word Aloha. The other, Hawaii.
‘Aloha,’ I said, to nobody in particular.
Alcohol, and a lot of it, would be the trick to surviving here.
I pulled down the wall bed. The bed linen looked fresh and recently starched. I made a mental note to tip the maid. Next to the bed a worn copy of the Bible was propped on a low table. My life was somebody up there’s joke, so I slid it under the bed.
I lay back, risking the invisible germs of the headboard and lit a cigarette to contemplate life. I was alive and had a kind of liberty. I could come and go, but not too far. Besides, Malvin could be Lauder’s eyes. I had no idea who Mr. Clarence was. Maybe Lauder’s partner on the ladder at Caziel’s? There had been no sight or sound of him, and I hadn’t asked. But I was in a black neighborhood, so there could be some connection. It was a clever move, but dumb, too. Nobody would look for me here, but I’d stand out like a sore thumb. I couldn’t make sense of it. Other than the name change, the being at Lauder’s beck and call, and the order not to call the LAPD, there were no other rules and regulations.
Lauder’s orders.
Glamour and crime were off the table, unless I ran. I was in no hurry to do that, not until I had a game plan that had a chance of working.
The truce was fragile, but would hold.
For now.
I got back up and unpacked, hanging up my clothes in the wardrobe. Laughable, to blow all those bucks the moment I’d stepped on dry land. The black evening dress. The silk shirts. The fine wool suits. The few hats I had. And then the older garments I’d lugged all the way from Blighty – the clothes Billy had probably picked out for me. None of these suited Elvira Slate. But who the hell was she?
My stomach lurched at the thought of something. Betty. Why hadn’t I put two and two together earlier? Had she supplied the outfits for Billy? She knew my size better than anyone. She would also know girls lost pounds inside. Betty probably believed I just wanted vengeance for the jail time and after that ran for my life. It made sense she told the cops. And it made sense if she named me to the Mob to protect herself.
I needed a drink, no matter what the locals made of me. I’d find a bar, and hope that any paying customer was a good customer. Lauder hadn’t expressly forbidden anything like having a drink. In the dimly lit bathroom, the shadows under my eyes were more pronounced than usual. I threw on the skirt of one of the suits and a polka dot lawn shirt. Inoffensive enough.
I slipped out of the cabin, walking quickly away, not wanting to be seen by Malvin through the blinds.
Back on the main drag, there were quite a few late-night bars and a liquor store. I was the only white person around and got a lot of sideways glances. Curiosity, mainly. But nobody would meet my eyes. An older woman in a housekeeper’s coat looked at me as she got off the bus. A ‘what are you doing here?’ look.
I nearly offered her a drink, for the company. My criteria for a watering hole were basic; cheap liquor, no nuisances, and near to the Astral. Swing music would lift my mood, but I couldn’t attract attention by jitterbugging the night away on the dance floor.
Suddenly, I stopped. This was crazy. Anything could get back to Clarence and Lauder, via Malvin.
I headed back to the Astral, feeling tired and very alone. Curling up in the crummy wall bed suddenly held all the appeal of a top dollar hotel.
The clock said two am. The room was stuffy and hot. I twisted and turned in the sheet, which felt sticky. I made a mental to-do list.
One. Get some basic forms of entertainment for the room. A novel, a pack of cards,
a book of crosswords. Prison entertainment.
Two. Take the Yellow Car to a movie theater. Resume June’s movie program.
Three. Ask Malvin for a fan that worked.
Four. Longer term, and the most important task. Get leverage on Lauder by being pals with Malvin. Find out who the hell Clarence is.
I switched on the lamp. Two roaches scuttled away across the carpet.
Five. Complain about the roaches.
28
‘Well, look what the cat dragged in.’
Lauder loomed over me. I was sitting on the sidewalk, around eleven, having a coffee at Tina’s. The sun was too bright, and I hid behind a cheap pair of sunglasses. I’d made sure Malvin knew where I was going and sure enough, he’d relayed the information.
‘I’ve had better nights’ sleep.’ I muttered, not bothering to look up.
‘Don’t like the Astral? Could be worse.’ He sat down, and leant forward, lowering his voice. ‘Could be jail.’
I ignored this. Lauder pulled out a cigarette, called out, ‘Coffee, Sandy’ to a pretty waitress with two black buns on either side of her head, and shot me a fake smile. ‘Getting to know the neighborhood?’
Probably that was a trick question. ‘Not really.’
Lauder leant over the table and briefly sniffed the red carnation flower in the vase on the table.
‘Who’s Clarence? Is he the one who you were with? He left twenty bucks for me. Thank him for me, will you?’ The sarcastic edge in my voice wasn’t lost on him and Lauder almost laughed. ‘I will. Got a name yet? Something to go by?’
‘Elvira. Elvira Slate.’
He thought about it for less than a second. ‘Elvira, sure. Neat. Could be you, at a push. If you clean up your act. Why Slate?’
‘Good idea at the time.’
Because it reminds me of how I met you. It reminds me of my stupidity.
‘Middle name?’
I gawped at him. ‘Do I need one?’
‘You do. Got the other passport?’
I slipped it out of my pocket and handed it to him. He examined the back and the front, flicking through the pages. ‘See, even Constance Sharpe has a middle name. Two, in fact.’ He looked at me, waving the passport. ‘Nice job. Not that you’d operate with amateurs.’ Lauder slid the passport into the inside pocket of his jacket. He’d burn it or keep it as part of his little Jemima Day collection.
‘I was in jail for almost five years. I didn’t operate with anyone and I have no idea who Billy ordered it from, as I already said.’
‘Grouchy this morning, aren’t we? All right. Susan.’
‘What?’
‘Your middle name. Susan.’
This was like naming a baby. ‘No. Susan’s dull.’
Lauder smirked. ‘See, you do care.’
‘Charlotte.’ I said.
‘That works. Elvira Charlotte Slate. Sounds educated. Something to aspire to.’
‘I am educated. Could I have my purse back, the black one?’
‘No.’ He lit a cigarette, let it dangle between his lips as he ripped a sheet out of his notebook. ‘Memorize this.’
A handwritten scrawl spelt out an address. 403 Fauness Avenue.
‘Got it?’
I nodded. Lauder plucked it from my hand and tore it up. He placed the pieces in an ashtray and lit them. The flames quickly turned them to black.
‘Malvin can give you a street map. Take the Car, then it’s a short walk. You’ll have a nice cozy chat with a couple of girls. Don’t say I sent you, or mention my name. You’re just delivering a message, short and snappy. They have to go back and pay back what they took by tomorrow, midday. They know where and what. Make it clear it’s for their own good.’ He viewed me quizzically. ‘What?’
‘I’m delivering a threat?’
‘A message. Be convincing about it.’
I sipped the dregs of my coffee. Sandy, the waitress, came out with Lauder’s, and gave him a smile. She had a wide gap in her front teeth that made her look young and cute. But she could be my captor’s eyes and ears and I shouldn’t judge books by covers. ‘There you go, Mr. Lauder.’
‘Thanks.’
When Sandy moved away, I said, ‘Convincing? How? I don’t know anything.’
‘They’ll be crapping themselves they’ve been tracked down.’ Lauder drank his coffee fast.
‘A couple of girls? Can I know their names?’
He weighed up the pros and cons of this. ‘Shimmer and Rhonda.’ Lauder looked at his watch. ‘Go around four. Don’t get into anything with Shimmer.’
‘This has to be a gimmick,’ I uttered. It stank. ‘So who am I supposed to be? I mean, what should I, you know, look like?’
‘Go as yourself. A crook on the make.’
‘I’m trying to clean up my act, remember?’
He raised a ‘why bother’ brow.
‘What if they don’t go back to wherever they’re supposed to? What will happen then?’
‘Not your problem.’
‘I meant, to me?’
‘Oh, yeah. I forgot – you don’t give a rat’s ass about anyone else. ‘Then you will have a problem.’
Actually, I did once, and look where it got me. Stuck with you.
‘What’s to stop them lying to me to get rid of me? Then, what?’ My voice wavered. Fear had nowhere to hide.
Standing up, he pulled out a couple of dollar bills and left them on the table. He leant over the table, whispering into my ear. ‘Just don’t fuck up.’
29
‘No. Wrong place.’ Through the small crack of the door, a pair of tired eyes with dark bags gave me the onceover. Shimmer went to close the door but I got there first, ramming my foot into the gap. She immediately pushed harder.
‘Fuck!’ I cried out. I lowered my voice, growling. ‘Open the goddamn door or I’ll make a scene and that old crow next door will call the cops.’
Moments before ringing the bell, I’d spied the neighbor in the next house peeking at me from behind her net curtains. A bona fide Nosey Parker. I had caught her eye and she dropped the lace. But I knew she was still there, having a good old snoop. It definitely looked like her regular pastime, watching the comings and goings of the bad girls next door.
My threat didn’t make a jot of difference. Shimmer kept pushing and I pushed back. Her wiry arms were strong. Shimmer hissed, ‘Scram, bitch!’
I panted my words out. ‘Look, I got a very short message for you.’
Her eyes flashed with anger. ‘Spit it out.’
‘Get back by tomorrow, midday. And give back what you took.’
‘Who says?’
I panted, pushing hard. ‘You know who. I’m just the messenger.’
‘Got it. Bye, messenger.’
I stopped pushing and the door slammed shut.
Short and snappy, as ordered. Convincing? Hardly.
I walked back through the front yard, aware of the old biddy’s net curtains swaying.
‘Hey, messenger.’ Shimmer’s voice was thick and sarcastic.
I turned around to see her standing in the doorway, hands on hips, cigarette in her mouth. Puffed up and dolled up. The pale mauve suit was a cheap copy from the expensive numbers in the fancy dress shops, but suited her. Underneath, she wore a frilly high-necked blouse that buttoned up the back. She had to be the same age as me, give or take a couple of years. Her brown hair looked recently dyed, a solid bronze color that jarred with her ruddy skin tone. I’d known plenty of Shimmers in London. Maureen O’Reilly was a Shimmer, and she had practically raised me. She taught me how to shoplift, how to fleece men and how to drink away the profits. A woman like Shimmer had educated me all the way to reformatory school.
She sneered, ‘I got a message, too. One for you to give back…’ She waved her finger, signaling me to come inside.
Don’t get into anything with Shimmer.
I wouldn’t cross the threshold. The orders had been clear. Even so, I was curious.
My eyes on
her, I limped back.
Up close, I could see she’d been through the wringer of life all right, a faint scar across her cheek. Her tough veneer masked a once-pretty face that had dark rings under the eyes, and prematurely deep lines around her mouth. I could smell violet eau de cologne.
‘Well, come on in,’ Shimmer said, opening the door wider.
I hovered. Bad idea.
No. Good idea. Play it well, I might get something on Lauder.
I stepped into a gloomy room. The blinds were pulled down, and a side lamp with a lacy shade provided a glimmer of light. A small velvet sofa pushed into the corner near a fireplace had seen better days. A cheaply framed portrait of a young Mexican girl in traditional costume and a mini-sombrero, the type of picture a tourist might buy, hung on the wall. Three suitcases were lined up near the door. Somebody was coming or going.
Shimmer stood with her back to the door, scanning my outfit. I’d ignored Lauder’s insult and put on a silk shirt with a tie neck, a mushroom skirt and espadrilles. Making an effort would get her on my side because she wouldn’t respect me if I looked like a tramp or a lowlife.
I stood in the middle of the room. ‘So what’s the message?’