I reached the Strip and turned east, and drove a chromium-neon mile to the Moulin Rouge. It was a long flat building set back a hundred feet behind a wraparound parking lot. The huge sign at the curb was fifty feet tall and shaped like a neon-outlined champagne glass, with the name of the place spelled across it in script. A row of palm trees broke up the austere roofline, running across the front.
There was a thin scattering of cars on the lot. I parked by the side entrance and went in that way; otherwise I would have had to walk through the dining room to get to the bar, and my lack of tie and jacket might have provoked an argument with the major-general at the front door.
Just inside the door I stopped to give my eyes time to dilate. The place was dim; after the hot brilliance outside, it seemed pitch dark. The side door gave entrance through a dirty narrow corridor with doors on either side; the smell, essence of men’s room, told you where you were even if you couldn’t read the signs.
When I could see through the gloom I went along the short hallway into the bar room. The place was bathed in an unpleasant sea-green light, muted and indirect. The gaudy juke box played bedroom music with heavy bass thumping; loners sat on bar stools drinking steadily, staring straight ahead with drowned faces, and at a round corner table three floor-show ponies sat in the leather booth nursing pink drinks with their smiles glazed on, waiting to be picked up by men from the bar. The three fastened the smiles on me when I appeared.
The barkeep was a minor hoodlum I knew from the old days. If he was all broken up by the proprietor’s death he made no show of it. When I slipped in between two empty bar stools and hooked an elbow on the bar, he came down to me and gave me a mildly inquisitive look. I said, “Too bad about the boss.”
“Yeah.” He wasn’t giving away a thing, that bird, so I decided to change my tactics. Instead of asking him any questions I went straight back to the corner booth and said to the three girls, “Any of you know how I might find Judy Dodson?”
They got busy looking at each other. Two blondes and a redhead, none natural. One of the blondes was over-stuffed and ripe, barely tucked into a spare, tight dress which lifted and bunched her abundant soft breasts. She said, “Who are you?”
“Name of Simon Crane.”
“Do I know you from somewhere?”
“No. Are you Judy Dodson?”
“What of it?”
I gave her a closer inspection. When she looked up, the light caught the surfaces of her eyes—the most startling pale blue, as if she had gem crystals in the irises. It was easy to see why Aiello had picked her: she was a big, splendid animal, brimming with glandular equipment that suggested—by nature or design—that her sucking needs had made of her a container that had to be filled.
I said, “I’d like to talk to you.”
One of the other girls said, “Are you a cop?”
“No.”
Judy Dodson said, “What do you want to talk about?”
“In private.”
She looked at her companions, shrugged, and got up. She had a swollen hairdo and a pouty face. When she walked away her swelling buttocks writhed. I followed her to a little table opposite the bar and held her chair for her. She grinned. “Man, you are real uptown.” She sat; her breasts bubbled over the scooped neckline.
I pulled up the opposite chair and Judy Dodson said, “Pleased to make your acquaintance. Suppose you order me a drink before we start the dialogue. I like Scotch mists.”
I ordered from the barkeep and sat back, giving her a friendly scrutiny. Her body was too lush, the kind of figure that wouldn’t last, but right now it was ample and stunning.
Making it friendly, I said, “Nice dress.”
“Sure. I only shoplift at the best stores.”
Her smile seemed a bit cruel until I discovered that she was slightly, almost undetectably, drunk. The result of Aiello’s death? I wasn’t sure how to approach her with it. The bartender came; his arm dashed in twice between us. We sat jammed against the wall at a table hardly big enough for four elbows and two glasses. When the bartender straightened up, Judy Dodson said, “Gimme a quarter for the juke box,” and he handed her a quarter marked with red nail polish—a gimmick barkeeps use to separate shill coins from customers’ money when the juke box collections are made.
When he went, I said, “Sit still a minute and let me talk. Two or three people are the favorites for Sal Aiello’s murder but if they turn up with alibis you’re going to the head of the class. Understand? You were the last one to see him alive.”
She didn’t seem to react at all. She only brooded down at the tall misted glass. Her lips were parted, moist and heavy in repose. Abruptly she got up. I started to rise but then sat back down. She walked toward the juke box. I watched her buttocks as she walked. I could tell by the way she bent down and squinted at the juke box labels that she was nearsighted. By the time she came back to the table, the big speakers were thumping out a striding jazz waltz. She sat and spoke:
“I hate men. First they soften you up and then they belt you one.”
I took a drink of my vodka on the rocks; it was a mistake—the alcohol thundered through me. I said, “I didn’t mean to sound tough. I said it all at once so you wouldn’t get up and leave before I could ask you a few questions.”
“What questions? Who are you?”
“I’m a fellow who needs to find out what happened at Aiello’s house last night.”
“But you’re not a cop.”
“No.”
She made a face and tasted her drink and pushed her chair back. “Maybe I’ll call you in a day or two.”
“Call me now, Judy. You heard what I told you. All I need to do is make one phone call. Say to Pete DeAngelo.”
“Pete knows I was there.”
“Maybe he doesn’t know you were still there after Mike Farrell left.”
She sucked in her breath and drew the chair close to the table. “Okay. You win. What do you want?”
“Did Aiello have an argument with Mike Farrell?”
“I—yes, what the hell. Yes.” She opened her little sequined handbag and took out a pair of glasses with frames that pointed upward at the edges, put them on and studied me through them. “You’re physical, you know?”
I said, “What was the beef about?”
“Between Sal and Farrell? I don’t know, I didn’t pay much attention. Farrell just got out of jail and he didn’t seem to think Sal was treating him generously enough, you know? After the rap he took.”
“I thought Aiello handed him five thousand dollars and the key to a car.”
“That’s right, he did. How’d you know all this? You weren’t there.” Her powdered face scowled past the glasses. She added, “Pete told you, didn’t he? You’re working for Pete.”
I let her go on thinking that; I said, “What kind of mood was Farrell in when he left?”
“What do you mean?”
“Angry and shouting? Or was he resigned and disgusted?”
“You mean, did he look like he was about to come back and kill Sal? I really don’t know, mister. I never saw Farrell but once, and that was last night. I don’t know him well enough to tell. He wasn’t yelling threats or anything like that. He looked scared, I guess.”
“Scared enough to lose his head?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. He just didn’t seem the type, you know? He looked like the type who’d go some place and get drunk and cry a lot.”
I nodded. “All right. What happened after he left?”
“Nothing.”
“You can do better than that,” I said, making it harsh.
She grinned. “You’re a doll,” she said. “Real physical.” She was as nasty and sarcastic as she could be. “Look, Pete DeAngelo knows me well enough to ask his own questions, and he sure as hell knows where to find me if he wants to spend a dime’s worth of gas. You tell him if he wants me he can come himself—the bastard pawned me off on Sal Aiello like an old pair of shoes when he got tired of me. Who does he think he is? He’s a doll, too, just like you—you seem to run in packs, don’t you?”