"Cord, you know you weren't looking out for me," Linda said. "You were attempting to get me into bed."
Cord's muzzle was in his drink. He took it out and gave me a little elbow and said, "Can you blame me, Phil?"
As he spoke his eyes swept the room. He was not a boy who wanted to miss a chance. Before I had a chance to say whether I blamed him, he spotted someone.
"Hey, Manny," he shouted and burst off across the dining room toward a weasly-looking little bald guy with a deep tan and an open shirt, with the collar carefully out over the lapels of his cream and plaid camel jacket.
"Must have been hard," I said to Linda, "not to tumble in the hay with him."
"Mostly," Linda said, "when he tumbles into the hay, he passes out."
She leaned over and kissed me lightly on the lips.
"Right out in public?" I said.
"I want everyone to know who belongs to whom, here," she said.
"Mostly it matters that you and I know," I said.
She smiled and patted my cheek. "We do, darling, don't we."
I nodded and she swept off to greet a new guest as if they had risen from the dead. Mousy Fairchild seemed to have shaken off her husband for a moment and swept past me with a tall dark guy in a good suit. She stopped, ordered another martini from Tino and said, "Meet the lucky man," to the dark guy in the good suit.
"Mr. Marlowe," she said to me, "this is Mr. Steele."
Steele put out his hand. His eyes were steady and blank, his face was healthy looking and smooth. He was a man who looked like he could move quickly and you better move quickly too. We shook hands. Mousy's husband trudged over and retrieved her.
I said, "Used to be a guy named Steele, Arnie Steele, ran the rackets in San Berdoo and Riverside."
"Is that so?" Steele said. "Understand you're a private cop."
"When I'm not passing canapes," I said, "and cleaning up after bridge parties."
"Nice little deal," Steele said, "marrying into all that dough."
"Peachy," I said. "I heard this Steele guy got out of the rackets, maybe four, five years ago. Bought himself a place in the desert."
"Knew when to get out, huh?" Steele said.
"Uh huh," I said.
The weasly little bald guy with the deep tan and the open shirt came over to Steele.
"Arnie," he said, "excuse me, but I'd like you to meet somebody. Cord Havoc, the movie star, biggest thing in the country this year. We're thinking of putting something together you might be interested in."
Steele nodded without expression as the weasel edged him away from me with his shoulder. As he left Steele glanced at me over the weasel's head.
"Stay loose, Shoo-Fly," he said.
I nodded. Tino stepped over and refreshed my drink with a lovely little economical flourish. When I turned back from the bar I was nose to nose and elsewhere with a piece of blonde business in a frantic decolletage who was drunker than two billy goats. Her eyes were very large and very blue.
"Are you in pictures, Mr. Marlowe?"
"I couldn't make it," I said. "They went for the horse instead."
"Somebody said you was in pictursh," she said. The s's were all slushy. She leaned against me and the push-'em-up underwire bra jammed into my rib cage.
"I'm in pictures," she said.
"I knew you were," I said.
"I'm an actress." The s's were increasingly difficult for her. "I'm in a lot of pirate things. I play a wench. You know? I wear low dresses and bend over in front of the camera a lot. Director says to me do your dip, now, Cherry. Like everybody knows about me."
"Now I do too," I said. She was not leaning into me out of passion, she was leaning for support.
"Did you come with someone?" I said.
"Sure, Mr. Steele brought me. I'd never come to some swell's house like this, unless Mr. Steele or somebody brought me."
"Aw, I bet you get to go everywhere," I said.
She smiled at me and hiccupped and began to slide to the floor. I got her under the arms and dragged her back upright, got my left arm around her back and my right under her knees and hoisted her up in my arms just as all strength left her and she went limp.
Tino came around the bar.
"Sir?"
"Tell Mr. Steele I'd like to see him, Tino." Tino nodded and glided across the room, moving through the crowd without any apparent effort, bumping into no one. I saw him speak to Steele, who turned and glanced at me. His face didn't change but he nodded once, looked at the front door and jerked his head toward me.
A languid blond man with longish hair reassembled himself away from the wall where he'd been leaning and came over to me. "I'll take her," he said.
"She's dead weight," I said. "Can you handle her?" He grinned and put out his arms. I transferred her and he ambled away, out the front door and into the darkness. In maybe two minutes he was back.
"In the car," he said, "back seat, on her side. Lay her on her back and she snores."
"Thanks," I said. He nodded and went back to his post by the front door. Steele never glanced at him or me again.
"The lady is all right, Mr. Marlowe?"
"Sleeping it off in the car, Tino."
"The lady may be more fortunate than you, sir."
"Think of the excitement she's missing," I said.
"Yes, sir," Tino said.
12
I was on the road early, before the heat got hard, heading west to Los Angeles. Marlowe the commuting gumshoe. Works in L.A., lives in Poodle Springs. Spends 20 hours a day on the road.
The desert was empty this early, except for tumbleweed, cactus and an occasional hawk riding the wind currents with an eye out for breakfast. I passed a place that sold date shakes. Hard to imagine a date shake. My only company into L.A. were the big ten wheelers that passed you with a rush of air on the downgrades and blocked you on the upgrades as they downshifted.
The sky was high and bright when I got to L.A. I got off the freeway at Spring Street and parked. Inside City Hall near the City Clerk's Office was a small room under the big central stairway. On the grimy pebbled glass door, lettered in black, was OFFICE OF THE PARKING CLERK. I went in. Across the front of the room was a long counter, behind a railing were three elderly female clerks, to the right behind a railing were three small hearing cubicles. There was a line for each. I got in line for the counter. The line shuffled slowly forward, old people in worn clothing paying parking fines with postal money orders, sharp guys in flashy suits paying in cash and trying to look like this was just a minor annoyance, interrupting a day of important conferences. The clerk running my line was very fat, so that her head seemed to rest on her shoulders and her chins merged with her breastbone. Her hair was white with a pronounced blue tone, and she wheezed a little as she processed the tickets, very slowly.
When I reached her she said, "Present the ticket, cash? check? or money order?"
I smiled at her like a man about to propose marriage.
"Perhaps you can help me," I said.
She didn't look up. "Not unless you present your ticket."
I slid a piece of paper over the counter to her. I had written the number of Les Valentine's L.A. parking ticket on it.
"I wonder if you could tell me where that violation occurred," I said.
"You got a complaint, or wish to contest, step behind that railing and wait for the hearing officer."
"I have no complaint," I said. "I'm trying to locate the address where this ticket was issued. I'm trying to locate a missing person."
In the line behind me people were beginning to mutter.
The woman looked up at me. She had small eyes and a little hooked nose like a chicken.
"You want to pay a ticket or not," she said. "There's people waiting."