The Last Private Eye (3 page)

He wanted to talk to her about her body, tell her about her legs, say something about those fine hips, something on the order of “You've got a beautiful ass,” but he was there on business. So he asked her if he could see the manager.

“Ah'm the manager.” Her voice was soft, Southern. “My name is Karen Simpson.”

“Mine's Rhineheart,” he said. “I'm a private eye.”

“A whut?” She did something with her eyelashes. They were thick and dark. Her eyes were large and violet-colored.

“A private detective.”

Ms. Simpson looked amused. “This some kind of joke?”

“No joke.” He took out his wallet and showed her his license.

She studied it carefully. “Oh, wow,” she said finally, “you really
are
a private eye. Like Marlowe,” she added. “Are you familiar with Marlowe?”

“Who?”

“Philip Marlowe, the private eye.”

“Philip Marlowe. Trouble is my business. Twenty-five dollars a day, plus expenses. For walking the mean streets of L.A.” Rhineheart kept a straight face. “Does he have an office here in town?”

Ms. Simpson laughed. “You know perfectly well he doesn't have an office here. He's not real. He's a character in fiction.
The Big Sleep. Farewell, My Lovely.
”

“You a private-eye fan?” Rhineheart asked.

She nodded eagerly. “I was an English major in college. I did my senior term paper on the hard-boiled detective novel. I've probably read every private-eye novel ever written. Chandler. Hammett. Ross Macdonald. I've seen all the movies too.”

She'd seen all the movies and read all the books.

“You know the part,” Rhineheart said, “where the dick says, ‘You mind if I come in and ask you a couple of questions?'?”

“Uh-huh.”

“This is it.”

She laughed and opened the door and showed him into a room that was a duplicate of Carl Walsh's apartment. Even the furniture looked the same. On the floor next to the bed was an exercise pad and some barbells.

“Excuse the mess,” Ms. Simpson said. “You caught me in the middle of a workout.”

“You lift weights?” Rhineheart asked.

“Just for muscle tone.”

They look toned to me,
Rhineheart barely stopped himself from saying. He took a seat in an overstuffed wing chair that turned out to be as uncomfortable as it looked. Ms. Simpson perched on the edge of the bed.

“Is this about the couple on the second floor?” she asked.

“How'd you guess?”

She shrugged. “First the reporter, then the police, now you.”

“The police?”

She nodded. “This morning. Two of them. They searched Mr. Walsh's apartment.”

“They ask you about Walsh?”

“Not really. All they seemed interested in doing was searching the place thoroughly. They were up there for
hours.
”

“They leave with anything?”

“I don't think so, no, but I don't know for sure.”

“What'd these police look like?”

“Two big guys. Wearing suits. One had a beard, the other was bald-headed.” She paused and gave Rhineheart a look. “They weren't cops, were they?”

“I don't think so.”

“Were they bad guys?”

“Probably.”

“They looked like cops,” she said.

“Don't worry about it,” Rhineheart said. “Tell me about Walsh and his wife. What kind of people are they?”

“There's not much to tell. I don't know them very well. Hardly at all. I see them coming and going is about all.
He
left very suddenly a couple of days ago. I saw him come home around five o'clock Wednesday. He went upstairs for about an hour. Then he came downstairs, got in a cab, and left.”

“A cab? What kind of a cab?”

“I don't remember.”

“What color was it?”

She shrugged. “I'm sorry. I don't have a very good memory.”

“What about his wife?”

“She works in a hospital. As a nurse's aide, I think.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“Thursday.”

“Did you see her leave?”

Ms. Simpson nodded. “She came downstairs around nine-thirty Thursday evening. She got into her car and drove off.”

“What kind of car was she driving?”

“One of those Japanese cars. Yellow. I'm not good on makes. Or years.”

Rhineheart stood up. “You've been very helpful, Ms. Simpson. I'll let you get back to your workout.”

She smiled at him. “You could stay if you like.” She fluttered her lashes. “I've never balled a real private eye before,” she said.

Rhineheart liked to think of himself as a fairly cool person who wasn't surprised by a whole hell of a lot. Still, there were times. It took him a moment to think up a reply. “We do it just like everyone else,” he said.

“You know who you look like?” Ms. Simpson said. “The actor. Big, rough-looking guy. How tall are you, anyway?”

“What's height got to do with it?” he asked.

“Six two?”

Rhineheart nodded. “You're not going to ask me what I weigh, are you?”

Ms. Simpson shrugged. “I might.” She stood and took off her T-shirt.

Rhineheart had been right. No bra.

“You want to do it on the floor or on the bed?”

It was one hell of a choice. “You don't want to get into anything with me,” Rhineheart said. “I'm an old guy. Way over thirty.”

“I've always had this passion for older men.”

It was a great line. Rhineheart couldn't remember what movie it had come from.

He gave it one last shot. “You sure about this?”

“Are you all
talk,
” Ms. Simpson said, “or do you
do
anything?”

Rhineheart stood up and took off his sport coat. He began to unbutton his shirt. “I got an hour or so,” he said, “then I got to be someplace.”

CHAPTER FIVE

“How about I just ride along with you,” McGraw said. “That way I'd be getting some practical experience, and you'd be getting some, ah, company.”

“I don't want any company,” Rhineheart said. He took a bite of cheeseburger, a sip of Coke. Rhineheart and McGraw were sitting in a back booth at O'Brien's Bar & Grill, a neighborhood bar in the East End. McGraw was drinking beer. It was seven-thirty according to the clock above the bar.

“You know what you are, Rhineheart?”

“Yeah,” he said, “I know what I am. You know what you are, McGraw? A pain in the ass.” Rhineheart looked around for Wanda Jean, the waitress. “You want another beer?” he asked McGraw.

“No,” McGraw said. “I want to ride along with you. You promised me next time you got a case, you'd let me come along and help. You said you'd show me the ropes. You said you'd teach me how to become a private eye.”

“You can't teach somebody to become a private eye,” Rhineheart said. “Either they're a natural-born private eye or they're not. And you're not. For one thing, you're too small.”

“Too small?” McGraw repeated angrily. “What the fuck are you talking about ‘too small'? Where do you get off with that kind of shit?”

“How tall
are
you?” Rhineheart asked.

“I'm five feet one.”

“Bullshit,” he said. “You're four ten. Tops.”

“Five one.”

“Stand up.”

McGraw stood up. Rhineheart was surprised. McGraw looked taller than usual. He glanced down at McGraw's feet and saw that she was wearing five-inch spike heels. They were red and they went with her black slacks and her white blouse. They were cute—like McGraw with her fried hair and her shapely little body. McGraw's first name was Sally. She was Rhineheart's secretary.

McGraw's big ambition in life was to become a private detective. She certainly had no future as a secretary, Rhineheart could swear to that. She typed twenty words a minute and misfiled every other piece of correspondence that came into the office. Rhineheart knew why he had hired her: she had bullshitted him into believing that she was a competent worker. What he couldn't figure out was why he kept her on. Pity, probably.

“Don't be looking at my shoes,” McGraw said. “I'm five feet one, and besides, height's got nothing to do with it. You
promised.
”

“I felt sorry for you,” Rhineheart said. “You going to hold me to something I promised when I was feeling sorry for you?”

“Yeah,” McGraw said, “I am.”

“All that shit about being a woman and how tough it is and how nobody respects you.”

“It's the truth, Rhineheart.”

Wanda Jean came over to the booth. Wanda Jean had curly brown hair, a heart-shaped face, and a figure that overflowed whatever outfit she was wearing. She and Rhineheart were old friends.

To Rhineheart, Wanda Jean said, “You signal me, darlin'?”

“Give McGraw here another beer.”

Wanda Jean said sure, but first she wanted to know how come Rhineheart never called her up anymore. Rhineheart said it was because he'd been busy. Wanda Jean said yeah, sure, she'd heard that shit before. She wanted to know when they were going to go out and hit some honky-tonk bars and do some serious drinking and dancing and who knew what else.

Rhineheart said that sounded good to him.

Wanda Jean winked at him and wandered off. Rhineheart looked over at McGraw, who was drumming her tiny fingers impatiently on the tabletop.

“You going to keep your promise to me, or not?”

“Where I'm going tonight,” Rhineheart said, “it might be dangerous.”

“That's fine with me,” McGraw said.

“What do you mean, that's fine with you? Are you crazy?”

“Rhineheart, I'm sick of being just a secretary. Sitting around the office doing the same stuff day after day. It's boring and it's stupid.”

“And you don't do it very well anyway,” he added.

“Don't be a smart-ass,” McGraw said. “It's not the kind of job anyone with any intelligence would do well. It's like being a housewife. It's a rotten job, Rhineheart. I want to do something different. Something exciting. I don't care if it's dangerous or not.”

McGraw was like a lot of people, Rhineheart thought. She had the idea that private-eyeing was something special. The truth was that a lot of the time it was a matter of doing something like sitting around in your car outside a motel room, spying on some dude who was cheating on his wife.

“McGraw, being a private eye isn't that great a thing. It's mostly a lot of routine, boring shit.”

“Yeah? If it's so bad, then how come you do it?”

“It's like I told Kate Sullivan,” Rhineheart said. “It's one of the few jobs there is where you don't have to sell anybody anything.”

“Yeah, well I don't like selling any better than you do, Rhineheart, and private-eyeing's a whole lot better than being a secretary.”

Rhineheart gave her a long look. “I take you with me,” he said, “you better be cool and do what I tell you.”

McGraw, who was too small to lean across the booth, jumped to her feet, hustled over to the other side of the booth, grabbed hold of Rhineheart's face, and planted a loud wet kiss on his chin.

It was, he realized, the second time that day he had been kissed in a sisterly way by a little broad. When you stopped to think about it, McGraw had a lot of Kate Sullivan in her. Or vice versa. Maybe that was the reason he liked her.

“I promise to be cool,” McGraw said. “I swear to do what you tell me.” She sat back down and took a sip of beer. “Where we going first?”

Rhineheart shrugged.

Marvin Green hung around a place called the Kitty Kat Club, a topless joint on Cane Run Road. The Kitty Kat was owned by Angelo Corrati, who was wired, it was said, to one of the biggest families on the East Coast.

“You know who Angelo Corrati is?” he asked McGraw.

“The Mafia guy?”

“We're going to drop by his place of business, see what's going on.”

The parking lot at the Kitty Kat Club was half-f. Rhineheart parked next to a tall neon sign that flashed WELCOME DERBY VISITORS in bright orange letters. On the way inside, McGraw said, “I've never been in here before.”

“You'll love it,” Rhineheart said, taking her by the elbow and steering her over to a corner table. The room was dimly lit, smoky. On a small stage near the bar a tired-looking nude dancer was doing her number to loud jukebox music.

McGraw, squinting across the room, plucked at Rhineheart's sleeve. “Rhineheart, that dancer is topless
and
bottomless.”

“McGraw,” Rhineheart said, “you are going to make one hell of a detective.”

“Smart-ass.”

A waitress in a kitten costume strolled up to the table. Rhineheart knew her. Her name, he remembered, was Barbara. Everyone called her Bobbie. It had been a few years since he had seen her. He wasn't sure she would recognize him.

“How you doing, Bobbie?”

“I'm doin' fine, Rhineheart. How you doin'?”

“I'm doing okay.”

“I don't ever see you around anymore.”

“I been kind of busy, babe.”

McGraw said, “My name's Sally McGraw.”

Bobbie ignored her. She said, “So what you been doin' with yourself, Rhineheart? You still a dicktective?”

“Yeah.” He looked over at McGraw. “You want a beer?”

McGraw nodded.

“Give McGraw here a beer,” Rhineheart said, “and give me a Diet Coke, or something.”

Bobbie looked surprised. “You want a
soft
drink?”

“I'm on the job, babe.”

“Back in the old days, you didn't care if you were on the job, or not. You
always
drank bourbon.”

“I'm getting old, Bobbie.”