And then — a thin light, a locked door that your passkey opens — you do see her. Nearly knocks you to your knees. Veiled, dressed in black, black-stockinged, standing in a mostly naked crowd. Of manikins. You’re in the basement of a women’s dress shop, filled with manikins and parts of manikins, one of them decked out in widow’s weeds. There’s a bride, too, a swimmer, a woman in jodhpurs, others in underwear or night-gowns or business suits. Most of them are bare or mostly bare, most bald as well, some half-disassembled, armless, headless. In the dusty penumbral light, there’s an eerie sensuality about them with their angular provocative poses, their hard glossy surfaces, their somnambulant masklike faces, features frozen in glacial eyeless gazes. In short, not unlike most of the women you’ve known. You know you’re in trouble because they look good to you. You pass among them, stroking their sleek idealized bottoms, their hard shiny breasts. Why are they so beautiful? You peel down undies, lift skirts. Nothing underneath of course. Just a lot of rigid bare bodies, dressed in their absence of definition, yet, in a chilling way, they excite you. You touch the hard lumps between their legs, thinking about the soft wet pussy of the little sex kitten, the one who asked you to protect her and whom you failed, poor thing. So alive. What did the Creep say? Like wet velvet. Though he was talking about a dead woman. Wasn’t he? Or. . You hesitate before the manikin widow, feeling confused, chastised. Like you know something you don’t know, or shouldn’t. You take hold of the black skirt hem, drop it. Not right. Can’t look under the veil either. You don’t want to see that cold blind deadpan face.
There’s a message taped to the pubic knoll of a nearby manikin, naked except for a red wig. It’s from Flame. Figured you’d have to come through here sooner or later, Phil, it says. Just wanted to let you know that the cops got Rats. Collared him after he saw you. He’s in for a bad time. But it’s you they’re really looking for. They think Rats will lead them to you. You’re a famous guy. They’re pinning at least five different murders on you, lover. I’m hot! And lonely without you! Be careful! I miss you, baby! I want you back!
You’d hoped Rats had got away. He was on the run, he’d put himself at risk to tell you something about what you were looking for. You’d met in a train-yard amid abandoned railroad cars black with rain, someone had apparently tipped the cops, and they were waiting for him. For you, too, probably. All Rats had time to tell you was that there was a mystery about the widow. Had to do with the chalk drawing. And then he told you to tear ass, he’d lead the cops a chase, he knew how to shake them. You got away but apparently he didn’t. Must have lost his clog, the poor gimpy fucker. You owe him one.
WHAT YOU’D BEEN LOOKING FOR, EVER SINCE IT WAS found down in the docklands, then disappeared, was the widow’s body, and after a couple of bad days, you were consoled the night that Michiko’s note sent you there by Flame’s own orange-tufted nicely cushioned pubic knoll (you kiss your fingertips and tap the hard one here in memory of it). You were in need of consolation. Your client dead, her body missing, your pal Fingers run down, your own health in constant jeopardy. Not to mention what would have been a broken heart if you had one to break. That was a few nights ago when you were met in Loui’s by the ham-fisted thug with the roscoe. The suit. The Hammer. You never learned his real moniker; Flame named him that night with her song. He quickly became something of a nuisance. Later he got knocked off in the alley, blown away with your own.22. According to Snark. So who was he really? Why did he want you to lay off the body hunt? What was he doing the next night down at the docks? The widow had spoken of a mad-cap brother who liked to emulate detective pulp badguys. Could this have been the same guy? She said she thought he was working for Mister Big, might have been out to snuff her. Going for badguy sainthood. If that was the Hammer in the alley rain, who were his killers? Rivals of Mister Big? Or Big’s own hatchetmen, eliminating a cowboy interloper? Maybe Loui had some of his mob connections take him out as a favor to you. And to himself: the mug was bad for business, as he said himself that night, signaling his bouncers to toss him. Joe the bartender dismissed him as a fucked-up dude, winging it on his own, noting that real hoods, like cops, tend to partner up when on the job. And they go careful on the sauce. This guy had been in here before and didn’t know when to stop. You could feel for that. You know when to stop but knowing doesn’t help.
The next day you launched the search in earnest, starting with a return to Big Mame’s ice cream parlor. Fingers sent you here and you asked Big Mame why. She just shook her jowls and went about her business. She had one of those classic mudbucket faces, sullen and rumpled and full of sorrow, the kind that was very expressive but said nothing.
Fingers is dead, Mame.
No blame on me, Mister Bad Luck.
There’s a dame who’s dead, too. A widow. Why are people trying to stop me from looking for her remains?
Can’t say. What’s it to you anyhow? You do the dirty with this lady?
I don’t even know what she looks like.
So how you gonna know it’s her if you find her?
I’ll know.
But it was true. How would you know? By her legs? Legs aren’t faces with eyes and noses. Good thing, too. It would be a mess to have faces down there. No, what you were in love with was something less visible: a voice, a manner, poise. Style. A counter to your cluttered and seedy life. Would that be recognizable in a dead body? Mame only folded her arms over her big breasts and stared dully at you when you asked her questions, but you figured, even on the run, Rats would have to stop by sooner or later for a hot butterscotch sundae, he couldn’t stay away, so you let her know you wanted to see him. Your favorite is a five-layer parfait she makes, topped with cherry sauce, whipped cream, and rum raisins, and you had one of those before hitting the streets again.
YOU PAID FOR IT OUT OF THE ALLOWANCE BLANCHE HAD handed you earlier in the day on your way out the door, given only after you’d agreed to change your socks. Blanche seemed to be turning up at the office more regularly now that the widow was dead. Mostly to try to dissuade you from the unprofitable pursuit of a client who no longer existed. She had peered reproachfully at you over her horn-rimmed spectacles, plucking red hairs from your pants and jacket and unshaved lip, and pointed out that the important thing was not where the body was, but why did it go missing? In whose interest was that?