| Subject: Ice on Fire, 1 |
Author:
BBoX
|
[
Next Thread |
Previous Thread |
Next Message |
Previous Message
]
Date Posted: 07:10:44 12/15/01 Sat
In reply to:
BonnieBoX
's message, "Ice on Fire" on 07:06:59 12/15/01 Sat
Ice on Fire
a tip of the fedora to Effie Perrine
1999
It was the kind of day when mild-mannered librarians finger their sharpened pencils, and consider stabbing the overdue-book offenders. Everyone felt edgy, their tempers rising with the mercury inside thermometers. Everyone everywhere. All over the city, the unusual heat had turned summer from an icebox to a God damn broiler.
I was going crazy. Going to die. I was certain of it. I hated this weather. Reminded me of too many things, too many places; kicking around sleazy border towns, tropical ports with Jack and Uncle Walter. Things I wanted to forget. When we’d finally stopped in San Francisco, the City That Knows How was supposed to be just another port of call. But a week slipped into a month, became a year, five years. We were dry-docked here, and I felt relieved. The perpetual fog was one of the many things I welcomed. I liked the weather. And the chance to stow my gear long enough to call any place a home. Home for now anyway.
Sweat beaded on my skin and collected drip by drip until rivulets ran down my back. Everything was damp. I plucked at my white cotton blouse, which stuck to me, tried fanning in a little air. No help. Impossible. I couldn’t think. It was too damn hot.
Think about something else instead. That was the ticket. I leaned over my notes, then started typing up my report again. Clack. Tap-clack. The only thing I hated worse than this weather was typing. I struggled with a sentence, the spelling of another word. How did that rule go? "I" before "E" except after "C" … Forget it. The word still didn’t look right, but I couldn’t stop for it. Not now. I was getting my momentum. I was rolling now.
"… last seen Monday, August 29th at 03:00 on the corner of Market and Powell. The list of leading suspects as follows …" Clack. Clack. Tap-clackety-clack. KURKK. Damn. The keys of my Underwood typewriter were locked together like combatants, hovering over my page. I pried them apart, but snagged the ribbon. The ink smeared nastily on my sticky fingers. Hell.
I was wiping my fingers on a hanky when she walked in, announced by a puff of subtle Eau de Something, the expensive kind that comes in cut crystal bottles which cost more than my entire take for a year. She looked cool, elan and elegant; the kind of woman I always wanted to be and always resented. Her mink brown hair was Marcelled into perfect symmetric waves that withstood the heat. My bun sagged, the straggling bits of hair escaping from the weight of my bobby pins, and glued to the back of my neck.
Under a cunning hat and veil, the woman’s doe eyes were thickly lashed, her mouth a Cupid’s bow of feminine red, painted lush but not tart-like. "I’m looking for a detective. The concierge at my hotel recommended … your agency." She nervously touched the lustrous pearls clustered at her ears and neck. The dull glint of old gold graced her ring finger and wrists. Smelled wealthy. Positively reeked of old money. A client who could pay her bills. We could use someone like her. Business had been slower than an old boat to China.
Just in time, I remembered not to wipe my hands on my navy blue gabardine skirt. It may be secondhand and serviceable, but even good material wouldn’t forgive ink stains. I hastily rubbed off the last bit of ink on my hanky, stuffed it into my drawer, and hoped that she didn’t see the evidence of my mishap with the typewriter. "And whom may I announce?"
The thin pencilled lines of her eyebrows arched slightly at my drawing room "whom." "I’m Miss Lenoir. Madeline Lenoir. I need help."
"Then you’ve come to the right place, Miss." I reached across the desk, and pushed down the lever on the phone – one short, one long – our code for a real customer. Hopefully Uncle Walter was done sleeping off last night’s bender.
It was some time before he answered with a short gruff "Yes?"
"A Miss Lenoir to see you, sir."
"Send her in."
I listened hard. No extra taps that meant he needed more off-stage time to ready himself before I brought in the client. I got up from my chair, the wheels squeaking as it rolled back. I tugged down my skirt, hoped my shirt was still tucked into my waistband as I stepped around my old maple desk and grabbed my steno pad. My sensible gum soles slipped soundlessly over the parquet floor. How I longed for a pair of smart Italian pumps like hers. Couldn’t afford them. Probably break my fool neck wearing them. And I was already a tall Jane, didn’t need to top six feet with a pair of stiletto heels. But for once, just once, I wanted to walk with that little tap-tap across the parquet, that swaying announcement of feminine intentions.
Forget it, kid. Not an option. I was just a big galoot. A foolish one, half-dizzy with dreams. Like my father Jack. But what did dreams ever get for Jack? Nothing but trouble and a wooden kimono, the only thing in his life that was ever custom made. Dreams were for kids. Couldn’t afford that. There was only me and Uncle Walter now. I needed to keep my eyes on the ground. One of us had to. I walked towards the frosted glass door, twisted the knob, pushed the door open. "This way, then."
##
"I'm Walter Hunter. Please have a seat, Miss Lenoir." Uncle Walter gestured to a chair as he perched spryly on the corner of his desk. Amazing. Completely amazing. Once again, he looked like a debonair man of action, from the crisp white of his starched collar to his polished wingtips. His brown hair was neatly trimmed and pomaded, a touch of silver at both temples. There was no resemblance to the sorry moaning carcass I had hauled into bed with his shoes still on, a bucket by the floor just in case he decided to upchuck the eel juice he’d guzzled all night long.
So he must have found that eye-opener I’d left on the nightstand table. And the fist full of aspirins. They must have finally kicked in. Either that, or Uncle Walter was as good an actor as he claimed to be. "Just sit down, and tell me how we can help you. This is my secretary Nikita. You don’t mind if she takes notes while we talk? Of course you don’t."
The cushions of the over-stuffed chair hissed as Miss Lenoir settled back into it. Her manicured fingers, which matched the exact shade of her lips, fluttered helplessly like wounded birdlings before they landed in the nest of her lap. Big brown eyes darted about the room: taking in the low bookcase I’d forgotten to dust, a statuette of an elephant, the divan, a rubber plant. "Well, I … I hardly know where to begin. My sister’s led a very protected life. She has more money than sense really, and the moment my parents left for Europe, Adelle met a man, a charming man."
Yes, I knew the type. Sweet words, empty wallet. I’d been raised by one, if you could call it that. Poor Jack. Rest In Peace. He had done his best.
Uncle Walter said, "A smooth operator. Someone who’d easily turn a young girl’s head."
"Any impressionable girl. Any woman at all. He’s that kind of man. He could charm the fish from the seas, then leave them happy, gasping on the shore." Madeline Lenoir nodded, crossed her legs in a whisper of silk. "Adelle ran away with him. I was worried …"
"Yes," said Uncle Walter encouragingly, leaning forward so that his watch fob clinked lightly against the silver buttons of his waistcoat vest. "Go on."
"I couldn’t find Adelle. I looked everywhere. She seemed like to disappear from the face of the earth. Then just when I’d given up hope, she sent me a letter, general delivery, posted from here. I replied once, but she didn’t write back. I waited a whole week. I mailed another letter. Still no reply. I was at my wit’s end, didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t just wait at home. Do nothing. Wondering what had happened to her, what could be happening. So I sent Adelle a telegram, told her I was coming out here to see her." Miss Lenoir looked beseechingly at Uncle Walter. "I shouldn’t have done that, should I? Send the telegram?"
Uncle Walter lifted his shoulders in a little half-shrug before he unfolded his arms, let his hands rest, palms up, on top of his light wool trousers. "Six of one, half dozen of another. It’s hard to know. There’s no right answer to situations like this."
"But you must see how desperate I was."
Oh, brother. The helpless female routine. Next she was going to bat her eyelashes. She did. A quick fluttering of mink over the big brown eyes, glossy with unshed tears. This doll was a real pip. A genuine pip. I bit back my groan, my pencil digging a divot into my steno pad.
Client. Paying client. I repeated the chant to myself, imagined all those sweet C-bills lined up in her handbag. Food. Rent. Another month away from the soup line.
Miss Lenoir moistened her lips. "I don’t know what to do, where to turn. So I went to the post office, and waited until dark. Adelle didn’t come to pick up her mail. I waited the next morning. Still no Adelle. But he came."
"He?" I said.
Madeline Lenoir threw me a quick startled glance as if I’d jumped out of a corner and said "boo." Secretaries. We were those invisible people that made the world run. Quietly. Efficiently. "Oh my. Yes. Him. I asked about Adelle. He said she didn’t want to see me, didn’t want to see anybody. I didn’t believe that. Couldn’t believe it. He was very insistent, frightening. I wanted to run away, but I couldn’t. I had to stay. Adelle is my sister. I’d do anything for her. Anything. I said I’d meet him. Later this evening. At the hotel. The hotel at eight. Maybe Adelle will come too. Maybe he only wants more money. I don’t care. I’ll do it. I want Adelle. I …" Miss Lenoir broke off, her hand flying to her mouth as the office door opened.
A middle-aged man walked in, took a step back when he saw us, removing his hat when he saw Miss Lenoir. "Well, hello-o-o-o there."
"It’s all right, Greg. Come in," said Uncle Walter with his usual friendly tone, a tone that completely disguised his long dislike. "Miss Lenoir, this is Mister Hillinger, my … partner."
Greg strode over to the desk with the quick shuffle of a short-legged man trying to look confident. His cheap brown suit barely concealed his belly. He made a vaguely polite gesture with his hat as his eyes wandered over Miss Lenoir’s legs, appraised her jewelry.
Uncle Walter said, "Miss Lenoir is looking for her sister, who ran off with a man. They’ve arranged a meeting tonight. Maybe the sister will show. Maybe not. But Miss Lenoir wants us to get her sister away from him, and send her home. Is that right?"
"Yes," whispered Miss Lenoir, eyes downcast so that all I could see was her hat and her brown curls. Gloved hands clutched her purse.
"Any chance he could gum up the works by marrying your sister? You know. Make it legit and everything?" Behind the folds and jowls of his basset-hound face, Greg’s eyes lit with unhealthy interest as he surveyed Miss Lenoir one more time. His mouth pursed into a silent whistle. I scowled at him, but Greg ignored my warning as he always did.
Miss Lenoir shook her head, still looking down at her lap. Her fingers worried the clasp of her purse. "No. Not likely. He has a wife. And a child. In France."
"They always do," I murmured, unable to help myself. "Although usually not in France. No wonder she had to run off with him. Well, it’s a common enough story. And it sounds pretty simple. Real eggs in the cake."
"Yes," agreed Uncle Walter. "Miss Lenoir, if you can persuade your sister to come home with you, so much the better. If not, we’ll just tail this guy back to the hotel, and … arrange matters for you."
"Arrange?" Her eyes flew up, wide with alarm. "Oh, but you must be careful. He’s quiet, but dangerous. Very dangerous. A violent man, you can tell."
Come on, sister. This wasn’t going to be a tea dance. Manners first. Gloves on. This wasn’t that kind of business. We expected Capital-T Trouble. All fifteen rounds, down to the count. It was our bread and butter. Then I remembered the stack of bills, stamped Final Notice, due at the first of the month. "What does he look like?" I asked, gritting my teeth. "Young? Old?"
"Early thirties. Youngish, but a man of power. Tall, broad-shoulders. Brown hair. Thick eyebrows, green eyes … and a marked cleft in his chin. Handsome. As handsome as sin itself."
"That’s helpful," I said. "What about his build? Thin, medium, heavy?"
"Oh." She bit her lip, considering. "Medium build, I suppose. Compact, not bulky. Moves like an athlete. Graceful but fast, powerful. He was wearing a navy-blue suit and a dark hat when I saw him this morning. Well turned out."
"A gent. Or being kept like a gent. Occupation?" asked Uncle Walter.
Startled, she glanced at all of us, one after the other. Helpless, as if the question caught her straight on and unawares, like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming car. "I don’t know. I don’t have any idea."
Uncle Walter said, "All right, Miss Lenoir, we’ll have a man there …"
"I’ll see to it myself. Personally," broke in Hillinger, jerking his thumb to his chest. "You won’t have to worry about a thing, Miss Lenoir. You’ll be safe as houses. We’ll see this set right."
"Thank you. Oh, thank you. I can’t tell you … what this means. Here. I’ll write down his name and address." Her fingers shook as she took the pencil from me and jotted down the information with a quick flourish. Then she fumbled with the clasp of the purse before it unsnapped, releasing more perfume, expensive mints. She pulled out a crisp dollar bill, handed it Hillinger. Uncle Walter and Greg shared a cool look. There was an uncomfortable pause. Miss Lenoir flushed, then put another bill on the desk. "Will that do?"
Hillinger’s grin revealed a chipped eyetooth. The one I had given him. He rubbed his chin, nodded. "That will do just fine. I think our business together will conclude quite nicely … Satisfaction guaranteed."
##
Her anxiety beat at me like the frantic flapping of a butterfly trying to escape but not knowing where the window was yet. Each second – more desperate, less helpful. I murmured all kinds of meaningless reassurances as I escorted Miss Lenoir out of the office into the corridor. When I returned to the inner office, Greg held the money up to the light, then rubbed his fingers over it, checking the rag. He snapped it sharp, whistled long and low. "One hundred bucks. They’re genuine article. And they had brothers in her bag. One big family. Come to visit. Us."
I snatched the money from Greg and Uncle Walter, and pocketed it in my skirt before either of them had a chance to blow it in a speakeasy. Bills first. Booze later.
"What do you think of our Miss Lenoir?" asked Walter.
Greg laughed loudly, his head thrown back like a donkey braying, lips drawn all the way over his back teeth. "That’s one sweet tomato. Real sweet."
"You’re a married man," I said sharply.
"Doesn’t stop some women," replied Greg with an easy lift of a shoulder. "Some women – real women – don’t care about a little technicality like marriage. When there’s chemistry – BAM!" His fist socked solidly into the other palm like a fastball to mitt, straight into the strike zone. "That’s it, doll. There’s no stopping real gen-u-ine chemistry. No stopping anybody. Besides, what’s marriage? Three hots and a warm cot. Sure, it’s convenient. But every now and then, I get a hankering for something sweet. Maybe you saw her first, Walter, but I spoke up first. To the winner …"
"Goes the spoils," I finished. "Just make sure the spoils don’t get spoiled. Don’t queer the set-up. We need this dough. Be careful, Greg."
"I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself … And her."
"Well, you might need some help," said Uncle Walter.
"Help? No dice. I know everything I need to know. It’s all up here." Greg tapped his temple, then grinned suddenly. "And down south. If you know what I mean."
"Oh really? Don’t get them confused, pal. Don’t start thinking with your …"
Uncle Walter slid off the edge of the desk, grabbed my arm, squeezed hard before I could say more, something irreversible. "Sugar, let's not get sore. Stick to the point. We’re all professionals here. Tell Greg what he needs to know." We exchanged a look. "I don’t mind. Honest."
But it’s our case. I swallowed my protest, tore off a page from the pad too roughly so that the curly bits of paper flew everywhere. "I don’t care what you say, Greg. You’ll need this. It’s the info. Miss Lenoir’s man is staying at the Saint Francis. And the man’s name is …" Once more, I squinted down at her writing, elegantly unreadable like a watermark on fancy pants stationery. The first letter. That looked like a M. "His name is Michael. Michael Samuelle."
##
[
Next Thread |
Previous Thread |
Next Message |
Previous Message
]
| |
Feedback: 
