“Hysterically so.”
“There a reason for that?”
“I’m a man of wealth. It draws beautiful women like a magnet. I have healthy appetites.”
“That’s laying it on the line.”
“Come, come, my good man. You must like attractive women.”
“Can’t deny it.”
“There you have it.” He gave me a curt nod, took out a leather cigar case, and withdrew a Corona that probably cost more than a whole carton of my fags. Snipping the end off the cigar, he carefully lit it with a gold Ronson lighter. “As this seems to be settled,” he continued, the pungent smoke curling up from his lips, “I shall consider you in my employ.”
“That depends.” I lit up a smoke for myself. “How do you feel about your wife, Mr. Sikes? Bear her any ill will?”
“Dorothy?” He looked flabbergasted. “Heavens no. Well, I suppose I should, her wanting to do me harm. But I love her very much. We’ve just never been able to make a go of it.”
“She after your money, maybe?”
“Hardly. She has plenty of her own.” Harold frowned. “See here, Mr. Rossiter, I’m a busy man. You’re welcome to a few questions, certainly. But you’ve had them. Will you help me—yes or no?”
I thought long and hard.
Harold put an extra C-note on my desk.
This was all some kind of setup, no question.
Another C-note landed in front of me.
Somebody was trying to pull the wool over my eyes.
Yet another Ben Franklin hit the pile.
Old Ben was simply irresistible. “Sure, Mr. Sikes,” I said, raking in the seven large bills. “You’ve just hired your own personal shamus.”
“Good.” He ground out his barely smoked cigar in my ashtray, which raised quite a stink. “But you must be discreet.”
“I suppose that means I should do my surveillance from a distance.”
“Quite. I deal with a number of very important people. It wouldn’t do to be seen in the company of a…”
“Low-life private dick?”
“Well…” He cleared his throat.
“That’s all right.” I gave him my best smile. “I’ve been called worse.”
He threw me a return smile, albeit very tight-lipped. “Then we understand each other.”
“Quite.”
His eyes narrowed. “Are you mocking me, Mr. Rossiter?”
“No, I talk that way all the time. When do you want me to get started?”
“Immediately.” He looked at his wristwatch—big and gold, studded with diamonds. “I have an appointment with my tailor, then I have a date for—”
“Dinner and dancing,” I said. “And not with your wife.”
“Uh, yes…” He gave me a queer look. “How did you—”
“Just a wild guess,” I said. “Well, shall we get to it? Wouldn’t want to keep the lucky girl waiting.”
I grabbed my fedora while he put on his Hamburg. He carefully adjusted the hat to a jaunty angle, though it did nothing to improve his bushy-browed, beefy mug. As we went out, I left a quick note for Miss Jenkins to run down any info she could find on Harold Sikes and Dorothy Demar. Then I accompanied Harold to the elevator and down to the lobby.
His car was a new, black ’49 Packard just like his wife’s. While he got it started, I hopped into my Roadmaster, parked only a few cars back, turned it over, and dropped it into gear. After we pulled out into traffic, I settled into a medium-distance tail, never letting more than one car get between us. Then I called Heine on the two-way radio.
His gravely voice came loud through the static. “Hey, Jake, what’s shakin’?”
“Where are you?”
“Just pulling into the Frederick & Nelson parking garage.
Dame came straight here except for a quick stop for smokes at Pete’s Grocery by the office. Man, you were right about her gams. They’re swell! So’s the rest of her. Real treat following this broad. You got many more jobs like this, I might even take a cut in pay.”
“Don’t get too excited,” I said. “We just got thrown a major curveball.”
“What d’ya mean?”
I gave him the scoop about Harold Sikes hiring me for the same reason his wife did.
“Don’t monkey around, ain’t funny.”
“It’s the straight skinny.”
“No shit?”
“No shit. I’m on Harold’s tail right now.”
“Ain’t that the shits?” There was a long pause. “Somebody’s playin’ us for suckers!”
“I agree. Nothing we can do presently, though, except keep our eyes and ears open.”
“Hey, she’s pulling into a parking spot. Dame’s about to get out of her car.”
“Stay on her,” I said. “And stay in touch.”
“You got it. Over and out.”
I put my radio microphone back into its holder and continued following Harold Sikes through the moderate mid-afternoon traffic. So far, Dorothy Demar had done exactly what she’d told me: gone to Frederick & Nelson. We’d have to see about the rest. Likewise for Harold—I was real interested to see if he, too, would stick to the itinerary that he’d laid out for me.
He did. Made a beeline to his tailor, J. Berrymann & Sons, at 4th and Union. Swank joint. Had lots of polished brass and green marble fronting the plate-glass windows by the place’s entrance. I didn’t see any price tags on the display suits in the windows, so I figured it was one of those places where if you had to ask the price you couldn’t afford it. At least I had a decent view of Harold from where I was parked. I could see him pretty clearly past the window display as his tailor went to work on getting him fitted. So I stayed put, had a cigarette, and bided my time. Kept my eye out for danger, of course, but the only real danger turned out to be me smoking too much.
I was halfway through my fourth Philip Morris when Harold came out, got into his car, and promptly headed for the Rolf of Switzerland Beauty Parlor near 1st and Pike. I wondered what business he had at a beauty parlor, but my question was soon answered when he tooted his horn and two glitzy bimbos came out and met him at the curb. One had flaming red hair, was about half his age, and looked cheaper than the prize in a box of Cracker Jacks. The other chicken, also a redhead, wore a pop-your-eyes-out, bright blue evening dress that revealed the deepest cleavage this side of the Grand Canyon.
A perfect gentleman, Harold got out of the car and held the passenger door open for them. They scampered into the front seat, but not before each got a playful smack on the rump from the old boy. Then Harold slid behind the wheel and hit the road again, where he hooked up with Highway 99 and headed north.
Half an hour later, we ended up at our destination: an updated Prohibition-era roadhouse a few miles past the city limits called the Jungle Temple Inn.
I found parking fairly close to Harold’s car in the Jungle Temple’s big gravel parking lot. Instead of getting out and going inside, though, Harold and his chippies stayed put in the Packard for a while, the three of them busy kissing and horsing around as they nipped from a bottle of liquor that somebody had brought along.
While they had their playtime, I put in a radio call to Heine. I could hear the loud jazz music blowing out from the Temple as I waited for his reply. Place was a swinging hot spot. I knew it well, having done a little bootlegging for the original proprietor back when I was in my late teens. Now the booze was legal and the joint was even bigger and more popular than it had been during its speakeasy days. They featured jazz and swing that really got your feet moving. Had a huge dance floor, Class A hooch, good eats, and some of the best bands around. Even late on a Friday afternoon, the joint’s parking lot was filling up fast.
“Hey, Jake,” came Heine’s voice over the radio. “Where you at?”
“Jungle Temple.”
“The Temple, huh? Got some sweet memories of that place.”
“Anything out of order on your end?”
“Nah,” he said. “No kind of threats or anything, unless you count this Romeo that Dorothy’s with: he’s been all over her like hot fudge on a sundae.”
“Yeah? Where are you exactly? And tell me more about this Romeo.”
“He’s some swarthy joe she hooked up with at Vic’s Grill on Third Avenue. They had a couple drinks there, hardly touched their steaks, though—looked to me like they were hungrier for each other than the meal. Anyway, right now I’m tailing them past Chinatown up South Jackson Street. Nothin’ out this way except those Negro jazz clubs. Bet that’s where they’re planning to let their hair down. What about you, Jake? Anything exciting?”
“Not really. Except that Harold’s got
two
dames with him. They’ve been playing plenty of Post Office, but I haven’t seen a hint of anything sinister… Wait. Hold on a minute.” Harold and his redheads were getting out of the car. “Gotta go, Heine. My people are fixing to go into the club.”
“Likewise for mine, I think,” he told me. “Yup. They just parked outside the Rocking Horse. You know the place.” I could hear him opening his car door. “Talk to you later. Over and out.”
I signed off the radio and watched Harold, a girl on each arm, make his way across the parking lot. Then I piled out of the Roadmaster and followed them inside the Temple, both dames giggling and kicking up their heels the whole while.
The sound of their laughter was soon drowned out by the crazy combo that had the joint hopping. It was jammed to the rafters already, the parquet dance floor and most of the sixty or so tables ringing it almost full. Harold had no problem getting seated, though: slipped the floor manager a couple of bills and was promptly led to the one empty table front and center to the dance floor. Me, I was lucky to find a spot clear in back by the long saloon-style bar. But that was okay; it suited my purpose just fine. I was far enough away to be the epitome of discreetness, but still close enough to have an eye on business if somebody tried anything with Harold.
As if reading my mind, Harold turned my direction, looked straight at me, and smiled, like he approved of how I was keeping watch. Then he went back to nuzzling his chippies, both seated so close to him that they were almost in his lap.
I needed a drink if I was going to keep this up for long. No waiter in sight, I stepped to the bar to place my own order. That’s when the phone on the bar’s back counter began to ring. It kept ringing while the husky crew-cut bartender set up a round of drinks at the far end of the bar, then finally made his way down to me.
“Be with you in a second, bud. Gotta get this damned phone.” He jerked the receiver from its cradle. “Yeah? Who? Jake Rossiter? Look, I’m too busy to—”
“Hey, that’s for me; I’m Rossiter.” He handed me the phone. “This is Jake,” I said.
“Jake! Bad news.” It was Heine, all agitated. “Dorothy Demar’s been killed.”
“What?”
“Happened a couple minutes ago.” I could hear sirens in the background as he spoke. “Her and her Romeo both.”
“Damnation. Where and how?”
“Outside the Rocking Horse. They were about to go inside when all of a sudden this big DeSoto speeds right up over the sidewalk and squashes them against the wall. Hit so hard it almost cut them in half. Couldn’t do a thing about it. Car sped away by the time I got over to check on them.”
“I’ll be a sonofabitch.”
“Sure wasn’t any accident,” said Heine. “Dorothy Demar was telling the truth about her hubby. Had to be him behind this.”
“Yeah. And he made me his chump,” I said, now seeing the true reason why Harold hired me. “I’m his damned alibi, Heine. Get it? Harold will claim that I was watching him the whole time and he wasn’t anywhere near the Rocking Horse when his wife bought the farm.”
“That dirty bastard.” He was as angry as I was. “But what can ya do?”
“I’ll tell you what I can do.” I looked over at Harold with blood in my eye. “I’m going to take him out back and beat the truth out of him!”
“Don’t get yourself arrested.”
“If I land in jail for finally doing something right on this case, so be it.”
“Jake—”
I hung up on him. I was too pissed to listen to reason. All I could see at the moment was being too tough on Dorothy Demar when she had truly needed me. So I came out from behind the bar intent of rearranging Harold Sikes’s face.
A waiter was fixing to serve Harold and his party girls as I neared their table. But instead of setting up their drinks, he tossed the serving tray aside and exposed a silver pistol his right hand. It barked rapid-fire, putting three slugs into Harold’s chest before I could clear leather with my Colt.
Instant pandemonium. Harold was flat on his back, everybody screaming and ducking for cover around him. I got a bead on the shooter as he beat feet across the dance floor trying to escape. I yelled for him to stop. He turned and aimed at me. My .45 dropped him in his tracks.
I ran over to him, gun at the ready, to make sure he was no longer a threat. He wasn’t: I’d hit him square in the heart.
What the hell was going on?
I went to Harold next. Found him barely alive, his redheads cowering partway under the table, squealing and sobbing as Harold gasped and moaned. The blood spurting from his white shirt told me he wasn’t long for this world.
I knelt at his side. His glassy eyes stared into mine. “What… happened?” he asked.
“You tell me, pal. Your wife got murdered just minutes ago. If you know the score, you better cough it up before you meet your maker.”
He spat up a mouthful of blood. “I got her, then…” He managed a weak and bloody grin. “But this…” He grimaced in pain. “This… shouldn’t be happening to me… You’re supposed to be… my alibi…”
“Dorothy’s too, by the looks of it. Your wife was playing the same game you were, by God,” I said, finally getting the big picture. “She also hired me for protection today—had somebody ready to punch your ticket just like you did hers.”
“No…”
“Yeah. She set me up to be her alibi the same as you.”
“I don’t… believe it…”
“Believe it.”
“That devious… little bitch…” Then he shuddered and breathed his last.
I got to my feet. The two redheads were whimpering and blubbering even louder now that Harold was dead.
“Aww, shuttup!” I told them.
Then I waited for the cops. There being nothing else to do in the meantime, I went to the now empty bar and helped myself to a shot of Chivas Regal, the most expensive Scotch in the house. But like everything else, it tasted off.