And the Lana Turner look-alike buried in the desert. He said, “Listen, Nicky, you know anybody out at the Flamingo?”
“Couple bartenders. And Henri of course.”
“Henri the blackjack dealer?”
“Yeah, he’s a pit boss there now.”
Henri seemed genuinely glad to hear from him. He demanded, “Remember Sabine? Left with the bouncer with the seventeen pounds of dangling meat?”
“I don’t remember her putting it just that way, but—”
“Anyway, I guess it was so heavy he couldn’t get it up, so, zut! alors! she’s back wiz Henri, ze fantastique lover.”
They laughed, Dunc congratulated him, told him the story.
“A missing lady? Sure, give me the dope on her and I’ll run it past the registration desk. Ten minutes.”
Kata had checked in under her own name a month earlier, had checked out the next day. “That quick? Any phone calls?”
“Not to her room. And she didn’t make any calls out.”
“Anybody else asking about her?”
“Funny thing, I asked that, everybody got glassy-eyed.”
That explained why the client had taken a month to hire Drinker Cope. He had Vegas connections, had been looking for her himself, had struck out. Where to look next? Why wasn’t Sherry there to tell him? What was Drinker doing that was so damn important?
“I plan to die in the saddle, babe,” gasped Drinker Cope.
He withdrew, rolled onto his back, blew out a big breath. Sherry Taft reached for the tissues on the bedside table.
“Better not do it in my saddle, buster,” she grinned.
He sat up against the headboard, flushed from sexual exertion. His muscles were smooth under almost hairless skin. Sherry sat beside him, knees drawn up. Afternoon sunlight, muted by lace curtains, gave her racehorse body a seductive golden glow.
He put two cigarettes in his mouth, lit them, stuck one between Sherry’s lips. There were whisker burns on her chin.
“I’m going to look a sight tomorrow, Drinker.”
“What’s the diff? I’ve got you out sick today.”
She feathered smoke, looked over at him. “Why’d you want to put Dunc on this woman? He’s learning to skip-trace, but—”
“Wants to be a detective, he’s gotta learn sometime. And it’s as good a way as any to find out about his Vegas contacts.”
She shook her head fondly. “Drinker, you like living dangerously. What do you care about his Vegas contacts? If Mr. David knew you had him skip-tracing on this...” She paused. “Why do you? Really?”
“You know I hate skip-tracing and we were overdue for a day in the sack.”
“I’ll work on her tomorrow,” she promised.
He sucked hungrily on his cigarette, looked at the glowing tip, sucked again, and reached over to mash it out in the ashtray.
“How about you work on me right now?” he asked.
Dunc worked on Koltai for the rest of the afternoon, but the first break came from one of Drinker’s highway patrol calls.
“Is Inspector Cope there?”
Dunc put a cop’s boredom into his voice. “Eddie? He’s down in records checkin’ a file. I’m coverin’ his phone.”
“Tell him his suspect got a speeding ticket outside Rancho Mirage nine days ago. Driving a 1953 Mercury Monterey.”
Rancho Mirage. Dunc checked the California map. Near Palm Springs. Long-distance information had no new listings for Koltai in the area. Was she living there? Just passing through? With some new guy? If not, what was she doing for money?
Hey! Busted for palm reading in Arizona two years before! Ran off from Las Vegas. Nine days ago, a speeding ticket near Palm Springs. Deserts. Always deserts. This was thin. Really thin. Still, a lot of deserts. Deserts and palm reading. Palm reading under what name? Madam Kata? Madam Koltai?
If the sister up in Portland knew, could she be tricked into telling? He studied approaches to her like a coin dealer examining Spanish doubloons, picked one, called her again.
When she picked up, he asked, “Polly Koltai?”
“Polly Pride.” She gave a half-belch. “Pride for short but not for long.” Some drinking had been going on. Loud music in the background. “Gonna d’vorce him. Bastard got sent to the state pen for five-to-ten on an ADW beef ’n’ left me hangin’.”
“You’re doing the right thing,” said Dunc solemnly.
“Damn right.”
“Your sister mentioned your name and where you lived, and, well, I took the liberty of getting your phone number and—”
“Damn right you took the liberty. Well?”
“I met her in a... well, in a bar here in Palm Springs, to tell you the truth, a week, ten days ago.”
“Palm Springs? Hell she’s doin’ there?”
“She told my fortune, and... I gotta talk with her again.”
“Hey, mister, ’m shorry I can’t help you, but I din’ even know she was in Palm Springs. Her an’ her goddamn deserts! Me, gimme rain an’ pine trees an’...” A bottle tinked against glass. “Why’d you say you wanted to see her again?”
He put desperation in his voice. “Okay, look, I’ll level with you. She’s... We, ah, spent an evening together and... and I fell for her. Okay? I called around to a bunch of bars for a Madam Kata or a Madam Koltai, reading palms, but—”
“Hell, she never uses her own name! Madam Pollyanna.” She giggled. “Get it? My name’s Polly an’ her middle name’s Anna.”
“That’s really clever!” exclaimed Dunc. “She must think a lot of her little sister, use your name that way.”
“How’d you know I was younger?”
“You sound so much younger.”
“Damn right.” Another pull at her drink. “Prettier too. You tell her that when you see her, okay?”
“Sure. If you could tell me where she—”
“Hey, wait a minnit, I’m talkin’ too damn much...”
And she hung up, as if suddenly regretting her gabbiness. Dunc kissed a finger and laid it on the phone. Yes! Kata had to be somewhere around Palm Springs, reading palms under the name of Madam Pollyanna. Had to be. Now, a lot of phone work...
He settled lower in Sherry’s now-comfortable chair. Madam Pollyanna, always gave a rosy-futured reading. If she was Madam Pandora, she could foretell only dire events for her...
“Wake the hell up.” Drinker Cope loomed above him in topcoat and fedora, wide as a house, shaking him by the shoulder. “Hell of a way to cover the phones.”
Dunc sat up, stretched. “Just resting my eyes.”
“Then your eyes snore. Whadda ya got on Koltai?”
Dunc recounted everything he had done on the file. It sounded thin to him now. He didn’t know she was in Palm Springs...
“I, uh, haven’t had time to start calling around for—”
“I saw how busy you were, sacked out in Sherry’s chair.” Then he punched Dunc in the shoulder and gave a triumphant laugh. “I’ll be a son of a bitch, that’s great work — connecting up deserts and that old mitt-camp charge. We got her, kid.”
Energized, Dunc said eagerly, “Can I go look for her?”
“Hell no. We’re out of it from here on... Close and bill. The client’s got business interests in Palm Springs, they’ll ask around, when they find her he’ll send one of his own people down to get her.”
Chapter Thirty-six
The stewardess was checking reservations. “Name, please.”
“Simmons,” said Falkoner.
During the thirty-five-minute flight from Los Angeles his startling blue eyes, slightly askew in a sun-tawny face, studied the woman huddled across the aisle with melancholy contempt. She wore a cheap brown hat and clutched an old straw purse. Updrafts over the rim of the desert made her fists whiten with strain and her eyes burn with fear. He found her disgusting. Death was swift, casually given.