This Dame for Hire (2 page)

“You don’t have police reports, do ya?”

He snorted. “What do you think?”

“They wouldn’t give us anything,” she said.

“Not even the names of possible suspects?” I asked.

“There was only one. Her ex-boyfriend, Richard Cotten.” She wrinkled her small nose like she was smelling Limburger.

“He was never charged,” West said.

“But he
was
a suspect?” I knew he was.

“For a time.”

“I guess neither of ya liked him much.” I stubbed out my butt in the overflowing glass ashtray.

“Liked him? Cotten is a despicable bastard,” he said.

“Tell me why ya say that?”

“He didn’t love her. He was only interested in her money.”

I’d heard this before, but mostly from wives hiring me to follow husbands they think are stepping out on them.

Mrs. West said, “He was from a poor family and was raised by a working mother. Not that there’s anything wrong with a mother working, but she was never there and Richard ran wild.”

I could tell Myrna West didn’t think a mother should work no matter what.

“Father?”

“Shot in a bar fight when Cotten was four,” West said.

“Richard is a very angry person.”

“Did he hit your daughter?”

He said, “Oh, no. But he showed it in other ways.”

“How?”

“It was the way he talked to her. He always acted as if she was dumb, said hurtful things. That’s what we observed the three or four times we saw them together.”

“Claudette would have told us if he’d hurt her physically,” Myrna said.

I wasn’t sure that was true.

“You ever talk to her about the things he said to her?”

“Yes. She said that it was just his way.” West shook his head in disgust.

“You said
ex
-boyfriend. How long before the murder had they split up?”

“Only a few weeks.”

“Do you have a picture of him?” I’d seen his picture in the paper, but I hadn’t kept it.

“You’ll find one in the clippings.”

“Did he go to NYU, too?” I already knew the answer.

“Yes. And he’s still there. They were juniors when it happened. Didn’t you read the papers, Miss Quick? Weren’t you interested, considering?”

“Yeah, sure. But I didn’t keep a file.”

The expression on Porter West’s pale pinched face looked as though he didn’t approve. I ignored it.

“Being a suspect didn’t change his life; it made him a kind of hero.”

I also knew this, but I wanted to get the straight skinny from the father.

Anger flashed in West’s eyes, a small sign of life. “Some of the students got behind him, saying he was being picked on because he was poor.”

“That he was a wonderful, kind boy,” she said.

“The boy is a C student.”

In my book this didn’t make him a murderer.

“I guess he had a lot of friends,” I said.

“But he didn’t. Not until this happened. There are always those people looking for a martyr. Finding injustice wherever they can,” West said.

“And there were no other suspects?”

“None that we knew about.”

That didn’t mean there weren’t any. I’d have to have a meet with a dick named Marty Mitchum. He’d been Woody’s connection, and he’d passed Mitchum on to me. Or maybe it was me to him.

“So, you suspect Cotten because he said mean things to your daughter and Claudette dumped him?”

West looked at me as though I was his enemy.

“I’m not crossin you, Mr. West. I’m just tryin to get things in place.”

“Yes. Those actions and the fact that he was after her money. When she broke it off with him, he knew that the pot of gold was out of reach, and it made him furious.”

This last was speculation, but I’d keep it in mind when I met with Cotten.

“Is there anything else I should know?” I lit another cig.

They looked at each other. Almost invisibly West shook his head at Myrna like a warning.

“No,” he said.

“Okay. That’s all for now. I’ll need your phone number.”

I took the number down, and West handed me a check.

“You’ll call us every day?”

“That’s not how I usually operate,” I said.

“That’s how
I
expect you to operate.”

“What I normally do is call the client if I have somethin to tell.”

“I don’t care what you normally do. I want you to call us daily.”

This was getting my goat, but I held back. “How about once a week unless I have somethin to tell you?”

“Every day.”

I didn’t like this arrangement, but I wanted this case. “Okay.”

“We’ll hear from you tonight,” he said.

“Mr. West, I have to go through this material. I’ll have nothin to say by tonight.”

He weighed this information. “Tomorrow night then.”

I nodded.

West put a hand on his wife and guided her toward the door. They went out and didn’t look back.

Charming people,
I thought. Then I brought to mind what they’d been through, who they’d lost, and I gave them some slack.

I thought about when West shook his head at his wife and knew it could’ve meant a simple no to my question, but I felt it meant something else.

I didn’t know what it was.

But I knew I’d find out.

TWO

After the Wests left there was a tap on the pebbled glass in my door, and I told Birdie to come in. I never thought I’d have a secretary of my own when I was learning typing and shorthand.

“Were they who I think they are?”

“Yep.”

“Jeez, Louise, they hire you?”

“They did.”

Birdie Ritter was what you’d call a tomato. She was tall, five feet eight inches, unlike me, who measured just under five feet four inches. Her blonde hair was parted on the right and fell to her shoulders. There it flipped up in a Bette Davis style that framed a heart-shaped face. Bee-stung lips were painted scarlet, and Birdie’s big eyes were the color of Milk Duds. She wore a pink blouse, wide collar with pearls at her throat, and a gray skirt.

“Guess it makes sense,” she said. “I’m goin to lunch if it’s okay by you.”

“Sure, take a long one if you want.”

“You’re the best boss, Faye.”

I lit up a Camel. “Where ya goin?”

“I’m meetin Pete over at the Automat.”

“Thought you weren’t gonna see him anymore.”

“Ah, Faye, he’s better than nobody. Pickins are slim these days.”

I guess that was one way of looking at it, but I wouldn’t want Pete McGill on my dance card if he was the last guy in town. And he practically was. McGill was 4F.

“Have a slice of apple pie for me,” I said. There’s nothing I liked better than Horn and Hardart apple pie with a slice of cheddar.

“I’ll do that,” Birdie said, and gave me a jaunty three-fingered salute.

After she left I recalled the last boyfriend I’d had. It was a year ago. I liked Private Don McCallister a lot; he had a hooper-dooper southern accent, and he was a nice kid. But I hardly knew him. Then he’d been sent overseas, and we wrote lots of letters saying a lot of stuff we probably wouldn’t have said if there hadn’t been a war on.

When the letters stopped coming, I had my fears, but I couldn’t find out anything. Then a letter came from South Carolina. It was from Don’s brother telling me Don had been killed and had received the purple heart. He asked me if I wanted my letters back. I didn’t.

I swore I wouldn’t get stuck on anyone again until this war was over, and I hadn’t. Sometimes I’d volunteer at the USO Canteen, dance with some of the boys, talk a little, keep it light, but that was as far as it went.

Enough of that.

I took a long drag on my cig and remembered what a shock it’d been finding Claudette West that night. It had taken me days to perk up.

I glanced at the blank paper in my Underwood then began to make a list of names. Marlene Hayworth, the woman who came my way seconds after I’d found the body and who I sent to call the coppers; the first ones on the scene, Ryan and Conte; the detectives who followed it up, Clark and Hodiak. I might not have to talk to them, but they belonged on the list.

From the clippings in the folder the Wests had left I found names of Claudette’s friends and teachers, all of which I added. And, of course, Richard Cotten’s name.

I pulled the paper from the roller, folded it twice, and slipped it into my pocketbook. Time to do some legwork. That was what it was all about, this PI game, hitting the sidewalk and gabbing with everyone ya could.

But first I dialed Marty Mitchum, my personal friend at the NYPD, to set up a drink date later on.

In the bathroom mirror I stared at myself. A girl had to look her best when she was on a case and dealing with John Q. Public.

I pulled my lip case apart and twisted the end. Crazy Crimson was my choice. I used a different color every week just to keep it interesting. I put on the lipstick, then blotted hard on a piece of toilet paper, which showed my lips with all their creases and crimps like fingerprints.

I didn’t use mascara or eyelash gunk. But I could hold up three wooden matchsticks with my eyelashes, not as many as my mother could. But I didn’t want to think about her now. Or most of the time. I didn’t like thinking about my family at all.

I decided, not for the first time, it was a damn nuisance getting ready to take on the world. At work I had always worn heels and hose, but it’d been a while since I’d had a pair of silk stockings cause they were making parachutes from the stuff. Once in a blue moon I got a pair of nylons. Usually, same as a lotta other girls, I wore leg makeup and used my eyebrow pencil to draw a seam down the back of my legs.

I got out the tortoiseshell compact that held my powder and a matching case that housed my rouge. Then I lightly powdered my face, and dabbed my cheeks to make me look healthy. After a final drag and one smoke ring, I threw the cig down the toilet, flushed, and left the WC.

From the little table next to the door I got my book and purse, grabbed my tan spring coat and my brown felt hat off the rack, and left the office.

The weather was getting nice, so I didn’t button my coat. Next to my office building on Forty-third Street there was a cigar store run by a guy named Sam the Stork, so called cause he was tall and thin and bent his long neck in a way that made you think of his moniker. When I opened the door, I heard the strains of “Old Black Magic” coming from the radio.

“Stork,” I said, “how goes it?”

He was behind his marble-topped counter and bobbed his neck to say everything was copacetic.

“Ya wanna pack a cigs, Faye?”

I said I did, and paid for the cigs as well as the two papers I’d be taking on my way out.

I happened to know, as well as owning the store, Sam ran a crap game in his back room, and there were always a few guys hanging around, waiting to get in on the action. Today Larry the Loser, Blackshirt Bob, and Fat Freddy took up space. They all greeted me with a touch to the brim of their hats, although it was Blackshirt Bob, with a face like a bag of screwdrivers, who spoke.

“How’re ya doin, Faye?”

He asked me this whenever he saw me as he couldn’t get over that a twist ran a detective agency. And cause when Woody left they made book on how long I’d last. The bet stood until Mason came back or I folded. They had no idea I knew about this, but Stork, who bet on me making good, had a leaky mouth and told me right away.

“I’m doin fine, Bob, just fine.” I threw him a stunning smile.

The boys were smoking and flipping through magazines while they waited. I saw that Loser, leaning against the counter, was wearing his checkered jacket and eyeballing a racing form. He was famous for his love of the ponies and also for how often he lost, which was almost every day.

“Got any cases?” Fat Freddy asked me as he nonchalantly peered over the top of
Life
magazine.

I tried not to laugh. Fat Freddy was always short and regularly tried to tap me for a fin, which I never gave him. He wanted to win the bet more than the others.

He was getting fatter by the day. Folds now hid his neck altogether, and his belly spilled over his belt like a sack of flour.

“I have quite a few cases, Freddy, thank you. Matter of fact, I just got a new one which is prime.”

Fat Freddy forced a smile, making him look like an egg had broken across his face. “Good for you, Faye.”

I picked up my two papers from the shelf. “See ya, boys,” I said as I went for the door, and as I was leaving I heard “Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition” starting and was glad I was getting out of there cause this song drove me to distraction.

I loved living in New York City. There was always a feeling of life going on no matter what time of day or night. I ankled over to the subway at Broadway and Forty-second Street and descended. Once down there I dropped a nickel in the slot, went through the turnstile, and waited on the platform for my train. First on my docket was Richard Cotten.

Even though I’d been in New York for five years, I still found eyeballing the citizens a pleasing pastime. Of course it
was
part of my job, taking in the clothes, colors, features of almost everyone I came across. So I guess I should’ve called it a habit.

There were only three people this time of day, two sailors and an older civilian of the male persuasion. Each was different. That’s what made the human race so interesting to me. Two eyes, one nose, one mouth, but all different. Every joker was unique.

My train whooshed in, and one of the sailors and me got on. There were plenty of seats. After I cased the car I was in, mentally noting where each citizen was sitting, I opened
The Valley of Decision
to page 74 and read my way to my stop at West Eighty-sixth.

Cotten’s building was on West Eighty-eighth. I saw by the buzzer that he was on the fifth floor. I didn’t bother to ring, preferring the surprise of my arrival at his door.

In the hallway I smelled onions, garlic, tomato sauce, fish, and maybe a touch of liver. My schnoz was a great detector.

This was an older building, and the walls needed paint. Most walls needed paint these days, and they’d stay that way until the war was over, I thought. These walls still showed shades of green, though they were greasy and filmed over from years gone by.