by James, Terry
Before pulling out, I glanced towards the house. Mom was standing in the window with the curtain drawn, looking abandoned.
17
MONDAY MORNING’S MAIL was full of surprises. The first was a letter from Mrs. Fletcher, postmarked a week ago at the Spring Valley PO. It was a masterpiece of concision: “King, Ditch the coat and hat. Heidi Fletcher.” I was starting to like her. Her husband was next in the queue: an envelope containing a Fletcher Enterprises check for $150 for my week of service to him. The check was not accompanied by a letter of apology. Finally, a letter from the Bureau of Security and Investigative Services notifying me that my detective’s license had expired thirty days ago and was now delinquent. I had mailed in the renewal form months ago. Just to be sure, I searched through a stack of papers on the filing cabinet, and there it was.
I checked my messages. Three from Mom: the first checking to make sure I had made it home all right, the second to make sure I had got the first, the third a follow-up to the second. Also one from Gordon Fletcher, asking when I would be in my office. He wanted to have a word with me.
After a few minutes of quiet meditation, I took my right earlobe between my thumb and middle finger and massaged it in a circular motion. I read the notes I had taken on the Fletcher case then tore the pages from the pad and wadded them up and chucked them into the garbage can. On second thought I retrieved them and ripped them up and returned them to the can.
It was unusually quiet in the building. Normally by this time of morning a veritable flamenco of high heels is clattering away above and below, accompanied by ringing telephones, mysterious hammering sounds, the murmur of male voices. Easter Monday, I surmised as I picked up the piece of Silly Putty and looked again at the shoe, the trouser cuff, the dim suggestion of a ventilation grate. I took my magnifying glass from the middle desk drawer and studied the image more closely. Part of the nostalgia it exuded, apart from the smell and texture of the putty itself, may have been due to the fact that the shoe and the trouser cuff seemed to belong to the 1970s: a bulbous toe and platform heel, flaring cuff. The text read like bad modern poetry:
time. They rely on several privat
a vital link between the agency
f which is Ruth Brenner. A sin
“a difference in people’s liv
fact that she herself gre
t. Jerome’s, bu
I studied it for a while, trying to convince myself that there was a deeper meaning to it, then I set it back on the desk and got up and went to the window. The blinds were down, the blades tilted open. Beneath the uppermost layer of dust, a cake of dark grime had taken root. It took some scraping with my fingernail to get through to the aluminum. There the mold spores had created tiny starbursts of rust where they had eaten through the coating. I grabbed the drawstring and yanked the blinds all the way up, flooding the office with merciless sunlight. Dust motes sparkled slowly down for the next several minutes. The city sprawled away to the west, dissolving in a thick band of smog, cars pulsing in and out of shadow, jet contrails scarring the sky. At that very moment someone was being murdered. Someone was screwing someone else’s spouse. Someone was committing robbery, if not with a gun then with the click of a mouse. People were beating, defaming, blackmailing one another. There was no shortage of work out there. All one had to do was seek it.
I stood at the window for a while then went over and had a look at the case wall, where the Hardeman case, one of the most convoluted I had ever worked, was still mapped out. Walter Morris called it King at Arms.
Dozens of scraps of paper, newspaper clippings, time sequences, etc. were still taped to the wall, the blue ink faded to green. Layers of old scotch tape. Grimy handprints where I had leaned, the better to support my body while my brain worked the angles. My fingerprints so bold in places that they may as well have been inked on. Most of the Post-Its had long since fallen to the floor. There they lay to this day, curled and brittle as autumn leaves. Why hadn’t Ramona ever swept them up?
The second client’s chair, against this same wall, had been sat in maybe twice. It was a classy chair, in a Bauhaus sort of way: tubular stainless-steel frame, cushionless leather seat and back. I sat down in it. It wasn’t especially comfortable, but it gave me a new perspective on the north wall. It was something of a revelation that the wall even existed, so rarely did it enter my consciousness. Of course I knew it was there. The filing cabinet was up against it, towards the back corner. But I had never given it any special attention. Not that in and of itself it merited any, being utterly bare. Rather it was the perspective it gave me on the office as a whole that suddenly commanded my attention, for at that moment it seemed nothing more than a plywood stage set, everything in it so many hollow props.
Back at my desk I opened the middle drawer. Pens. Pencils. Erasers. Scissors. A ruler. Paper clips. Business cards. Bullets. All peculiarly weightless in my hands. I pulled out my address book and went through it page by page. Some of the entries were so old that I hardly recognized my own handwriting. Annette. Barbara. Clarice. Names of women I had scored with and never called again. I turned the page. Dad. A whole page of addresses and phone numbers, the years penned in beside them. The last entry five years old. Tommy McClendon and Butch Porter. Names that filled me with revulsion for the jackass I had been in my twenties. All in all, a pathetic summation of my human relations over the past two decades.
I sat for some time in deep contemplation, then I opened the bottom right-hand drawer and pulled out the bottle and the glass and poured myself a drink. I emptied the first and poured myself a second. I moved the bottle aside and pulled the telephone over. I had just put the receiver to my ear when someone appeared at the door. I replaced the instrument and quickly returned the bottle and glass to the drawer. I feared it was Mr. Fletcher. I did not want to see that man. But as he neared the glass, his shadow resolved itself into the silhouette of a woman. A woman, by the evidence of her curves, straight out of a Baxter Conway novel.
The door opened and in stepped Mrs. Fletcher. She was in that gown, the one she had been wearing in the photograph, so tight to her curvaceous body that it seemed it would dissolve with one deep breath. It was a deep blue-green thing, shimmering like moonlight off the midnight sea, an evening gown, in broad daylight. It was a stunning vision, such a sight in my office. I was suddenly aware of the stink of myself filling it up. She closed the door.
“Good morning,” I said. Nothing else came to mind.
“So this is a detective’s office,” she glanced around with an air of disappointment. She took a few steps forward.
“How can I help you, ma’am?”
“Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?”
“Would you care for a drink?” I asked.
“Yes, please.”
I pulled the bottle and two glasses out of the drawer and set them on the desk.
“I hope you like bourbon. It’s all I’ve got.”
“It’ll do.”
I poured the drinks and stood up and brought hers around and handed it to her. Her lips at that proximity were like two luscious, glossy red things native to some exotic clime that never once in the history of love poetry had been used to describe a woman’s lips. She was looking at the case wall.
“Please, have a seat,” I said, motioning towards the chair in front of my desk.
“I’d rather stand,” she said. She turned and eyed me. “And you can stop playing dumb.”
I smiled briefly. Perhaps I even blushed. I sat down behind my desk. It felt safer there.
“I got your letter,” I said.
“Did you like it?”
“It had its moments.” She didn’t smile. “So,” I said, “to what do I owe the honor of your visit?”
“Right to business, eh?” She ambled around, still checking out the place. She moved with a certain self-consciousness, perhaps a remnant of her days as a department store model, walking the runway with a thousand eyes on her, perhaps something she was born wit
h, a studied intention in every step. She stopped about five feet in front of the desk and looked at me. It was hard work keeping my eyes on her face.
“Listen, Eddie, if you don’t want to do this, just say the word and I’ll be on my way.”
“Do what?”
She took a drink, her eyes not straying from mine as she swallowed.
“I guess I was mistaken.” She turned as if to leave.
“Hold on,” I said. I got up and hurried across the room and opened the door and looked both directions down the hall.
“Where is he?” I asked.
“Who?”
“Your husband.”
“At work, I suspect.”
I closed the door and surreptitiously locked it. Her wrists, her neck, her ankles. Utterly sublime. She glided over to the window and leaned into it, as if to accentuate the silken elasticity of the fabric of her gown, the sunlight haloing her curves as she peered dreamily out at the city.
“Nice view,” she said, as if challenging me to agree.
“Is this another test?” I asked.
“He didn’t send me.”
“Did you know I was there, on the other side of the wall?”
“If you must know, I thought it was mean, treating you that way.”
“You didn’t sound too heartbroken.”
She turned around and placed her right hand on the crest of her hip bone and looked squarely at me.
“I came to tell you to get off this job.”
“What job would that be?”
“The one my husband hired you to do.”
“He hired me to follow you.”
“Not that job. The real job.”
“I seem to remember telling your husband where he could stick his real job.”
“He doesn’t take no for an answer.”
“That’s his problem,” I said. “I’m not working for him, so you can stop worrying and get on with your bargain shopping.”
She smiled.
“It’s not me I’m worried about. It’s you.”
“Is that right? Why are you suddenly feeling so charitable towards me?”
“I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
That made me laugh.
“Look, lady, I can take care of myself. I’ve been in plenty of scrapes.” I was starting to get annoyed with her. Her condescension. Her hokey femme fatale performance. What was her game?
“Consider yourself warned,” she said, walking back towards the door.
“Why don’t you quit yakking and show me your tits,” I blurted out. How that managed to rocket out of my subconscious unhindered by even the most basic laws of decorum was beyond me. But now that it was out there, I had to roll with it.
She didn’t bat an eye. She turned around. “You couldn’t handle these, gumshoe.”
I grinned. “Try me.”
She sauntered over, hips sashaying side to side, staring me down all the while. She stopped just short of me, close enough that I could smell her perfume. It seemed familiar. A bit cheap, but certainly effective.
“Even if you had the money you wouldn’t know how to put it where your mouth is.”
“Come on, baby, I don’t got all day.”
“Let’s see what you’re packing,” she said.
I chuckled. “Some wit.”
“You want to see my tits, show me you can back it up.”
“Fine,” I said and unzipped my pants and pulled out my tackle.
She laughed.
I took it in stride. “The tits.”
With a fabulous double-dip of her shoulders, first the right, then the left, she worked the straps down and unlatched the bra and bared her tits. I must say, they were magnificent. Full, ripe, bursting with youth. Beautiful taupe-colored nipples, slightly perky. I reached up to touch them.
“Ah-ah-ah,” she said, wagging her finger. “You got your look. You really think that sad little toe between your legs is worthy of these?”
“It packs a punch where it counts.”
She eyed me dubiously, then to my astonishment she reached forward with her right hand and grabbed it, pulling it, with me in tow, hard against her. I lowered my face to her tits and went lapping at them like a thirsty dog, slurping and sucking while she tugged me off. She had wicked, cold hands. Not ten seconds after I had achieved full erection I exploded in her fingers. It took all my strength to keep from collapsing to the floor.
“Jesus Christ, you idiot,” she squawked, staring wide-eyed down at her fouled gown. “Do you know how much this cost?”
“A buck fifty,” I panted, “at Bargain Town.” I didn’t give a damn if it was a million bucks. I was in heaven.
She scowled. “Don’t just stand there. Give me a rag or something.” She latched up her bra and yanked her straps back up while I pulled my handkerchief from my back pocket and wetted it with some of the bourbon. Only after she was attended to did I put myself back together.
“Consider yourself warned,” she said, tossing my handkerchief at me and marching to the door and out. I stood there listening as her footsteps receded down the corridor. Then I went back to the desk, sat down, and picked up the phone.
18
AFTER ELEVEN RINGS the receptionist put me on hold, allowing me a rare opportunity to hear the original “Ain’t No Sunshine” in its entirety. In editorial I got another receptionist who said she would transfer me to Mr. Stapleton. This time I got a stock market report. The Dow was up a hundred and thirty-six points in early trading on news of positive dialogues with the Chinese on a range of issues, including floating the renminbi. Mr. Stapleton’s secretary interrupted the futures report to inform me that Mr. Stapleton was on the other line at the moment. Would I care to hold? I got the middle passage of Shostakovich’s third opus, theme and variations in B-flat major.
At last I got a hello from a man.
“Howard Stapleton?” I asked.
“Speaking.”
I hesitated, knowing how absurd it was going to sound.
“My name is Eddie King,” I said. “I’m a private detective.”
The line went quiet for a few seconds.
“Okay?” he said, rather dubiously.
“Listen, I know what it sounds like. I got your name from Walter Morris’s files. I’ve been to see his wife.”
He was listening a little more intently now. Still he made no response.
“Do you have a minute?”
“Do you mind telling me what this is about?” he said. “I’m quite busy at the moment.”
“I just have a few questions.”
That got a resigned nasal exhale.
“Did Mr. Morris ever discuss his process with you?” I asked. “What kind of research he did? How he went about gathering material for his stories? Anything of that nature?”
“Look. Whoever you are, I’m not about to discuss confidential matters about one of my writers with a complete stranger over the telephone. Now, if you don’t mind …”
He left me no choice.
“Every one of Walter’s books is based on one of my cases.”
Again the line went quiet for several seconds. Only now the silence was filled with mental calibrations.
“You’re a private detective, you say?”
“That’s correct.”
“Could you give me your license number and your business address and telephone number.”
I gave it all to him.
“Let me get back to you,” he said.
“I’d appreciate that.”
He hung up.
I finished my drink and poured another. I hope that man has a strong heart, I thought as I got up and put on my hat and coat and made my way down the corridor to the elevator, because he’s in for the shock of his life. His first thought would be lawsuit. And it wouldn’t be me he would be worried about. As soon as he verified that I was on the level, his next call, or his ride up the elevator, would be to the boss, to warn him that there was legal trouble afoot with the Conway bo
oks. The publisher would telephone his lawyer, who would promptly mobilize his forces for battle. At some point in the next few days, if not sooner, my telephone would ring. On the other end would be an attorney representing Pegasus Editions, requesting an appointment to discuss my allegations. I would ask him to meet in my office, where I would lay my case files before him. Confronted with the preponderance of evidence, the lawyer would ask for some time to consult with his client …
This scenario unfolded in my mind as I pulled out of the lot and made my way across town in the general direction of Sunset Acres. Out on the freeway I got to wondering if I shouldn’t hire a lawyer myself. Until then it hadn’t occurred to me that I could stand to profit from this. If this wasn’t intellectual property theft, what was? At the very least I could probably claim damages to my professional reputation. And I was the least of their worries, what with people like Randolph Terwilliger, Lefty Crane, and Bugsy Goldstein gracing the pages of the novels. In fact, it was looking more and more like grounds for class-action, though it was hard to imagine any of those people in the same room together, let alone on the same docket.
It was about a quarter after two when I pulled up to the Morris house.
“I’ve already made the tea,” she said from within as I reached up to knock on the screen door.
“It’s me, Mrs. Morris,” I said. “Eddie King.”
“Yes,” she replied without hesitation. “Come in.”
As usual, she was in the wingback chair, the tea service before her on the table.
“Were you expecting me?” I asked as I neared her chair.
“I thought you might stop by.” The delicate lace collar of her parchment-colored dress was only slightly less evanescent than her smile. “Have a seat and tell me all about your weekend.” She leaned forward and poured the teas.
“Never mind my weekend.” I settled onto the couch, placing my hat beside me. “There’s something I need to ask you. The women in the novels,” I said, wrapping my fingers casually around my right knee. “You told me you were the one who described them.”
“Yes.”
“So why make them all gorgeous blue-eyed blondes? That’s not realistic. Annabelle Blair, Lucy Rogelle, Sally Lyon—those broads are nothing like that. Mayme Montrose could give Bela Lagosi a run for his money.”