When I came out the elderly man with rheumy eyes and gnarled fingers was slamming down the car’s hood. I gave him a hand. “I’m looking for the Grimes house,” I lied. “It’s along here on this street, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” the oldster sneered. “It’s a wonder you can’t see the path.”
“I don’t get you,” I admitted.
“Come on now, sonny,” he chided. “I know what you’re up to. I ain’t blind. She’s gonna like the look of you, that woman!”
“I’ll bet she owes you money,” I said lightly.
“Me, the cleaners, the liquor store — everybody. Don’t know why. She gets her old man’s government check regularly. And blows it just like the rest of them. She’s no good.”
“Them?”
“Those come-n-go women married to those kids at Hamilton Air Force Base. Only the Grimes dame ain’t about t’ move. She’s got it fat right where she is. Been squattin’ there going on five year or so. Layin’ on her back is more like it.” He went to the rear of the car and removed the gasoline hose nozzle from the tank. The dried-up, stoop-shouldered man was all too willing to air his prejudiced opinion of military wives. He’d said nothing to indicate Captain Grimes’ attitude toward his wife’s alleged behavior. It would help to know if Keith Martin had led me into an unpredictable situation and what sort of reactions I might face when I stepped into tell Martin that his weird escapade was over.
I got a long, questioning look. He took his time hanging the hose back on the pump. His voice was softer when he spoke. “Guess they didn’t tell you. Mrs. Grimes is one of them MIA wives. You know — her man got lost over Vietnam when the war was on. I was sorry for her at first... used to come in here sad-eyed an’ cryin’. I seen quite a few like her, being here so close to the air base. Most moved away after a bit. But she stayed on, not knowin’ and waitin’ for word. She joined some sort of MIA wives club, going to Washington and all... time and again. She got real bitter. Come to dislike congressmen who gave her the runaround almost as much as she hated the Vietnamese. Then she started havin’ company — men — young officers from the base. Another would show up soon’s the first one was transferred out. Been a whole string of ’em.” He snorted contemptuously. “You might as well get your share. You won’t have no trouble.”
“I don’t want to move in on somebody else’s set-up.”
“Don’t know as you will,” he replied, his tone hardening again. “There was a new one — big, strapping, important-acting guy — came in here with her once for gas a few days ago. Could be he ain’t left yet. His car was in her drive last night... seen it on my way home. None of ’em stay too long, but the car he had’s been sittin’ there most of the time the last few days.”
“Guess I’d better forget it,” I said, handing him payment for the gas and oil. “There’re plenty of other tail-wagging tadpoles in the pond.” I waved away the change he offered. “Thanks for-steering me off, Pop.”
He measured me up-and-down approvingly. “You ain’t got nothing to worry about, sonny.”
I drove away in the opposite direction from the Grimes house. A circuitous six-block trip turned me around so I could park along the curb in front of the Ivywild address. It also gave me time to think. One item of the conversation I’d just had bothered me. That was the point that Martin’s rental car had been parked in the Grimes driveway for some time.
What would keep Martin there? Apparently he didn’t know the Grimes woman; he had to get her telephone number from a long distance caller. Why did he seek her out? I couldn’t understand why some slattern who kept open house for transient jocks could have that much appeal for a person like Martin who could avail himself of the likes of Melissa Stevens.
Whatever Martin and Mrs. Grimes were up to, I was going to cut it off short. I wondered which one — Martin or Mrs. Grimes — would be the most surprised.
As it turned out, I was.
In fact, there was more than one surprise in store for me.
Mrs. Grimes was no stranger. I’d seen her many times, but not recently. And not as Mrs. Grimes.
The mystery wasn’t cleared up until I got inside the house. The doorbell didn’t work so I rapped on the loose-hanging screen door. A slim bleached blonde with a highball glass in her crimson-nailed hand answered my knock. Her puffy-eyed face wore a frown.
“Gloria?” I asked.
She squinted through the screen. The frown disappeared when she got her eyes focused properly. She didn’t answer right away. She looked me over with openly frank appraisal. The dull look in her eyes brightened. The tip of her pink tongue came out and traced along the edge of her upper lip. She looked at me like I imagined a mongoose would react upon discovering a nest of cobra eggs. “Yeah,” she replied. “Who’re you?”
“Nick Carter. I thought I’d drop by and see how you’re getting along.”
Gloria leaned out to look around me to the curb where I’d parked the car. She glanced up-and-down the street, then stepped back. “Come on in.”
The residual beauty of her attractive features nudged my recall. I couldn’t quite isolate her from the kaleidoscope of pretty faces that filled my memory. I looked her full in the face as I stepped inside. The living room was cluttered. The upholstered furniture was stained and soiled. Romance and movie magazines were heaped on a scarred and scratched coffee table. Ashtrays were unemptied. A threadbare path in the worn carpeting led to the kitchen and the bedroom. I listened. The only sound was the drip of water from a leaky faucet.
I was disappointed. I fully expected to see Keith Martin. Mrs. Grimes remained silent as my eyes roamed about. “Nobody’s here,” she reassured me.
I barely heard her. My attention was fixed on the framed photograph on the fake fireplace mantel across the room. One glimpse at it and I remembered Gloria Grimes. The photo was one of thousands mailed out from the motion picture studio publicity department. Gloria Grimes was better known as Gloria Parker, a movie bit player and one-time promising starlet. She had disappeared from the Hollywood scene some years ago. Her downfall occurred when her numerous romantic exploits received more notice and comment than her acting.
I looked back at her. Her faded blue eyes kept blinking. She weaved unsteadily. “You remember me?” she asked and struck a grosteque parody of the provocative pose in the photograph. She stood so that her long legs, high-perched bosom and saucily-flared buttocks were displayed. A form-fitting knit sweater and tight slacks made the similarity unmistakable. She then moved her hips suggestively. The bold, enticing motion was a deliberate invitation.
I didn’t respond as she expected. I smiled noncommittally; I was in no mood for sex games. I was hungry, tired, and frustrated that I always found Martin a short step ahead of me.
“Wanna drink?” she mumbled, moving past me into the kitchen. I refused, but followed her as far as the door. I couldn’t go inside. The disorder of unwashed dishes piled in the sink and hardened grease on charred-handled skillets was revolting to me. Shelves behind yawning cabinet doors were scenes of confusion. Used tea bags lay on counter tops along with loose cereal, sugar, and dried spilt milk. Gloria rattled the array of liquor bottles next to the sink, chose one at random and tilted it over her glass.
I backed away and seated myself in a broken-spring armchair facing the sofa. I sank down so that my knees were almost touching my chin. Gloria joined me, making a production of curling herself up in one corner of the sofa. With pure feline movements, she slipped off her sandals and drew her legs up on the cushion beside her. The sun had reached the western horizon. In a few minutes the room would be dark. Gloria made no move to turn on a light.