When I opened it, hundreds of girls smiled at me. Centerfolds gleamed down at me from the walls, all skin and teeth and amateurishly come-hither eyes. "Quite a collection," I said.
"They can't move very fast, either," he said, giving me the laugh again. He was sitting in a lawn chair, dressed in a white T-shirt and white boxer shorts. An aluminum walker straddled the carpet in front of him. His calves were thinner than his forearms.
"Stop looking," he said. "You'll be old, too, you know. Sooner than you think. What happened to the hootchy-koos?"
"One of them got into trouble last night."
"The one who came home or the other one?"
"Did one of them come home?"
"Cops," he said. "No manners atall." He pronounced it as one word. "Yeah, Mr. Question Man, one of 'em came home."
"Which one?"
"Slow down. You think I just sit here and stare out the window?"
"Yes."
"He, he, he," he wheezed. "Well, I do. The one who dopes all the time. She can't walk no better than me."
"What time?"
He pursed his lips, making them disappear into a vortex of wrinkles. "Eleven," he said, "maybe eleven-ten."
"She went into the apartment?"
"Sure. Where else is she gonna go? Up here?"
"You know for sure it was the dopey one?"
"I was watching, wasn't I? Dropped her keys twice, kicked the door. Seen her do it before."
"Who was she with?"
"Nobody. Went in alone, for a change."
"Did someone drop her off?"
"That's a different question, ain't it? One of them little red cars."
"Who was in it?"
"Two people. One driving and one sitting, like usual. They drove off when she got to the door."
I took a deep breath. "Did she leave again?"
"Yup. Those girls don't stay home."
"When?"
"Pardon?" His eyes glittered maliciously.
"When did she leave?"
"Fifteen minutes. Walked out and turned left. That enough for you?"
"Was anybody waiting for her?"
"Nope. Staggering around on her own."
"And did she come back?"
"Dead, isn't she?" he asked.
"Why do you ask?"
"Well, she didn't. Come back. And then you cops turn up."
"We do indeed," I said.
"Finished?"
"Yes," I said, pulling the door open again, "I'm finished."
"Not exactly Academy Award time," Norman Stillman was saying in what was supposed to be an incisive tone. "Not exactly Bette Davis in Dark Victory." Neither Dixie Cohen nor I pointed out that Davis had lost that year.
It was the next day. After I'd waved good-bye to the Peeper, who was watching me from his aerie, I'd called my answering machine from a pay phone at Fountain and Vista. Dixie had called and, in the tone of voice Dan Rather might use to announce that Europe had disappeared from the map, told me that Stillman wanted to see me Sunday at nine a.m. At his house.
We were in the den, an inevitably nautical room about the size of Colorado. If it had been any more shipshape, the floor would have rolled beneath our feet. I'd been kept waiting as a further hint that I was not the flavor of the month. After a precise fifteen minutes Stillman had swept in with Cohen in tow. He'd favored me with a well-practiced piercing glare and started right in by getting his Oscars wrong.
"You've only got one job," Stillman continued. "That's to stay with Toby. You've got ten thousand dollars of my money to stay with Toby. So what happens? On the first night out, you let him get away from you, and a girl gets killed."
Dixie clucked reprovingly and shook his head. The two of them were dressed right out of Western Costume: Stillman had come ashore in white slacks and a navy blue blazer with, honest to God, an anchor embroidered on the pocket in metallic thread, and Cohen was wearing yet another corduroy suit. Cord du roy, cloth of the king, come down a peg or two to hang on Dixie Cohen's despair-ridden, unregal figure.
"So?" Stillman said.
"I beg your pardon?" I'd stopped listening a minute ago, thinking about the "girl" who got killed. Stillman raised his eyes heavenward, a not-so-ancient mariner on the lookout for the albatross.
"So why shouldn't I can you right now?" he said.
"Can me. It's Toby's money anyway. He'll be interested to know that you're being so frugal with his residuals."
Stillman was too much of a pro to look surprised that I knew he'd paid me with Toby's money. "His future residuals," he said. "If he's not in prison where he can't collect them. And, by the way, are you threatening me?"
"Norman," Dixie Cohen said warningly.
"I'd like some coffee," I said. "It's early. And yes, I'm threatening you."
There was a moment of silence. Stillman discovered that his cuffs needed adjusting and adjusted them. Dixie thrust his hands deep into his trouser pockets and balled them into fists.
"You'll wreck your pleats," I told him. "It's hard to keep pleats in corduroy."
"Don't I know it," Cohen said wearily. He took his hands out of his pockets.
"Do we have coffee on this boat?" I asked. "Maybe I could have some hard tack or a ship's biscuit to go with it."
Stillman made a small impatient gesture, and Dixie scurried out the door. To avoid looking at me, Stillman went over to a map of the Pacific just like the one in his office and regarded it dramatically. A red pin informed me that the Cabuchon was still in Honolulu. I was wishing I were, too, when he yanked the pin and moved it an inch to the right. California bound.
"You should have a pin for Toby," I said.
He didn't turn to face me. "I thought you were my pin in Toby," he said acidly. "Apparently I was mistaken." I let it ride. Beverly Hills birds sang outside the window. They didn't sound any better than Topanga birds.
"I'm a successful man, Mr. Grist." Stillman finally passed on the Pacific and let his eyes wander around the den, taking in the results of all that success. "I'm not inclined to overlook failure."
"Stop talking like a KGB operative. Toby scammed me. He's good at it. You should know. Anyway, I kept the cops away from him, for now. Of course, that's an omission I can always correct."
"My God, you really are threatening me," Stillman said. He sounded relieved to be on familiar ground. "I'm not without influence, you know. I can have your license."
"What would you do with it?"
Dixie scuttled back in. In Stillman's presence, he seemed to walk sideways, like a crab eyeing a tourist. "Coffee's on the way," he said.
"That's not the point, and you know it," Stillman said to me. He still hadn't raised his voice. I didn't imagine he ever raised his voice. "The point is-"
"The point is that you're blowing smoke. It's only a matter of time before the cops get around to Toby. The boy's got bad habits, and the habits are on record, and the cops aren't stupid. What we should be talking about is where we go from here."
"You mean you don't know?" Dixie said. He sounded disappointed. Stillman went back to the Pacific.
"Sure, I know," I said. "We figure out who killed the young woman."
"A drug addict," Stillman said fastidiously, eyeing an area just north of Guam. I was liking him less by the minute. I hadn't liked him that much to begin with.
"Drug addicts can get killed just like the rest of us," I said. "They probably even object to it."
"That's not my problem," Stillman said.
"Yes, it is," Cohen and I said simultaneously. "Norman," Dixie added respectfully.
"Good for you, Dixie," I said. "You're beginning to figure it out."
"It doesn't make any difference whether he did it or not," Dixie explained to Stillman's back. "Once it gets out that the cops are talking to Toby, it's over. Six years of putting up with him down the toilet."