Collins, Max Allan - Nathan Heller 12 Read online

  “Miz Kuntz says you’re a private eye, Mr. Heller. A famous one, at that.”

  “Make it ‘Nate,’ and there’s no such animal as a famous private eye; or if there was it would be bad for business.”

  “Why?”

  “Because when people recognize you, it’s darn hard to spy on ’em.”

  She laughed at that. “Okay. Cream and sugar, it is.”

  “Anyway, don’t you think the world tastes nasty enough, without voluntarily swigging something bitter?”

  “You’re right. I don’t even like coffee. Not even with cream and sugar.”

  Pearl, from her post at the front of the restaurant, was giving me the evil eye.

  “You better pay attention to some of your other customers,” I advised her.

  “Maybe I don’t want to,” she said regally, and glided away. That walk; what a walk—like sex on springs . . .

  I glanced over at Pearl, who was frowning at me, and blew her a kiss; she turned away before I could see her smile—she thought.

  “So what’s your name?” I asked the lovely waitress, as she delivered my grilled-onion-topped porterhouse, sour-cream-slathered baked potato, and Russian-dressing-crowned head-lettuce salad.

  “Well that depends,” she said, placing the plate before me, brushing nicely close, her Chanel Number Five blotting out the rising aroma of the steak; her full lips somehow managed a pixie smile.

  “Depends on what?”

  “Whether you like Betty or Beth. I’m Elizabeth Short, and both Betty and Beth are short for Elizabeth.”

  A silly little joke, which she’d probably told a couple thousand times, but I found it amusing and chuckled accordingly. Goddamn, it felt good to flirt again! I felt human—I felt like me.

  “You’re much too poised and chic for ‘Betty,’ ” I said, and she was—inordinately so, for a waitress, to where I wondered if it was an affectation or a put-on. “So I’ll go with ‘Beth.’ ”

  “Good choice,” she said, obviously pleased. “That’s my preference, too.” She nodded toward my steaming steak. “The chef said I should mention that’s really, really rare. If you want it cooked some more, just say the word.”

  “Much as I’d like the excuse to talk to you again,” I said, carving into the porterhouse, seeing a deep, satisfying red, “this will do nicely—far as I’m concerned, the only way a steak can be too rare is if it’s still grazing.”

  Now she chuckled at my silly little joke, and sashayed away.

  I was pretty well stuffed from the porterhouse and trimmings, but—looking for an excuse to prolong my relationship with the waitress (and telling myself that her striking resemblance to Peggy had nothing to do with it)—I ordered dessert. The house specialty was a mocha layer cake, one of the restaurant’s fabled slabs of which would probably knock me into a coma.

  “Ooooo, I just love chocolate,” Beth said, writing down my order.

  “Hey, wait a minute—why don’t you cancel that, and let me take you out for dessert, when you get off? When is that?”

  She was frowning, but not in displeasure. “Well, uh . . . it’ll be fairly late, we’re open until eleven, you know. . . .”

  “What’s your favorite dessert?”

  “Oh . . . banana split, I guess. Maybe cheesecake.”

  “They’ve got both at Lindy’s. What do you say?”

  Eventually, she said yes; and when—just after eleven—she met me in the Morrison’s plush, high-ceilinged lobby, I did a double-take: this lowly waitress was wearing a smart black dress with a pattern of pink roses on the bodice and a leopard fur coat and hat, plus dark nylons and black clutch purse. This was what she’d worn to work?

  Maybe her regal, refined manner hadn’t been a put-on.

  I offered her my arm and she beamed at me—God, she was stunning . . . Jesus, she looked like Peggy—and ushered her out into the nippy fall night. She shivered, snuggled close, and covered a cough, so I decided to flag a Checker cab and spare her the walk over to Lindy’s, on West Randolph. Also, I wanted to impress this classy little dame, which I think I did.

  We sat in one of the booths under the mezzanine and had a banana split—we shared it, at her insistence—and those blue-green eyes, seeming more blue than green now, were wide with the celebrities and near celebrities frequenting the theatrical restaurant. At a neighboring booth, Eddie Cantor and Georgie Jessel were deep in some noncomical conference over chop suey and cigars; Martha Raye, a frequent Chicago nightclub attraction, was having cocktails with that young singer, Dean Martin; and at a table in the bar, that genial tank of a woman, Sophie Tucker, loud and laughing, was holding court with a trio of fawning young men, eager to light her latest cigarette or fetch her a fresh drink.

  Beth hadn’t wanted a drink: her lips touched neither liquor nor tobacco, she informed me rather proudly. She felt both activities were unladylike and “could make a girl look hard before her time.”

  She had no such reservations about banana splits, however, and admitted to being “addicted to ice cream,” though her slender if busty figure didn’t betray that.

  Already I was mildly smitten with this girl who so resembled Peggy. Dipping my spoon into her dish, sharing the sundae with her, was at once innocent and sensual.

  “Am I the only one here impressed by all these famous people?” she asked, as she sipped tea and I stirred cream and sugar into my coffee, our empty sundae dish cleared away. “Nobody’s asking them for autographs, or even looking at them. . . .”

  I shrugged. “That would be gauche. You can see celebrities and would-be celebrities in here any time of day and night, show-biz types and newspapermen and big-time politicians . . . Joint never closes.”

  She made a cute face. Those luscious full red lips in the Kabuki mask of her face were startling—would even have been clownish, if she weren’t so beautiful. “I guess I don’t know much about Chicago.”

  “Your first time here?”

  “I stopped over, a few times before. This is the first I’ve stayed for any real length of time. I came because I had an opportunity to do some modeling.”

  “Not surprising, with your looks and grace. What kind?”

  “For newspaper ads—hats, gloves, coats.”

  I sipped my coffee. “With what agency?”

  “Sawyer Agency.”

  “Duffy Sawyer?”

  She nodded, seeming vaguely embarrassed.

  “Let me guess why you quit—Duffy expected you to entertain his male clients.”

  With a tiny humorless smirk, she said, “He put me up in a hotel—the Croyden—and had me go to dinner with him and various . . . business prospects. He said he wanted me to ‘lay the charm’ on these businessmen.”

  Emphasis on “lay,” I thought.

  She was saying, “It wasn’t so bad, at first; we went to a lot of hep jazz clubs. But, uh . . . Duffy got mad at me, because—”

  “You weren’t charming enough.”

  “Something like that. So I quit, and moved out of the Croyden—I’m bunking in with some girls at the St. Clair Hotel . . . know where that is?”

  “Sure.” It was over on East Ohio; both hotels she’d mentioned were home to a good share of showgirls and models. “You still interested in modeling?”

  “Oh yes—legitimate modeling, and acting. I sing, too.”

  “Well, honey, Chicago isn’t what it used to be. Vaudeville’s dead, most of the radio shows have moved east or west, and not much national advertising’s done here, anymore.”

  “I can also dance.”

  I smiled, shook my head. “Afraid there’s only one chorus line in town, and that’s the Chez Paree—measly six girls, and those positions are golden. Oh, sometimes the Palmer House and the Sherman put on productions, but . . . pretty slim pickings, unless you’re willing to work burlesque.”

  “Stripteasing.”

  “Yeah. Lots of that in this burg . . . but I don’t think you’d like that any better than dispensing ‘charm’ to businessmen
.”

  The aquamarines widened. “You are so right . . . though I do have the figure for it, don’t you think?”

  “No argument there, and I’m not judgmental about the profession. Some of my best friends are strippers.”

  That news didn’t seem to put her off. “Well, anyway, I’d never stoop to . . . stripping.”

  “Good. It’s a hard life—and if you aren’t Sally Rand or Gypsy Rose Lee or Ann Corio, you’re lucky to make fifty bucks a week.”

  “I’m better off waiting tables.”

  “Yeah, and it’s warmer.”

  She lifted her chin as if offended—but maybe kidding on the square. “Is that what you think I should stick to? Waiting tables?”

  “Hey, I’m not trying to discourage you—that’s just the reality of it. Tough as that town is, Hollywood’s a better bet for you.”

  She nodded, saying, “I’ve been there—several times.”

  “Any luck?”

  “I’ve done some extra work, and a little radio.”

  “It’s a start.” I waved a waitress over for more tea and coffee. “Look, there is some modeling to be had in Chicago—I know people at the agencies. Plenty of local advertising, and the big mail-order companies do their catalogue work here. . . .”

  “I might take you up on that. But I probably will head back to Southern Cal. I only came to Chicago for the modeling job, and . . .”

  “And what?”

  She shrugged. “A serviceman I know had a stopover scheduled here. An Army Air Corps lieutenant.”

  “Boy friend?”

  “Nothing serious. I met him last year, at the Hollywood Canteen. I was a junior hostess, there. Met a lot of stars—Franchot Tone, Arthur Lake, all kinds of celebrities.”

  “What about that Air Corps lieutenant?”

  “What about him?”

  “If you and he weren’t serious, why did you come to Chicago to see him?”

  Another shrug. “Like I said, I came for the modeling job, and just took the opportunity to connect with Gordon again. I’d been writing him letters . . . I have a lot of servicemen friends. I write to several, I like to build their morale. . . .”

  “Sure. Guys you met at the Hollywood Canteen.”

  Was that her story? I wondered. Was she one of those “Victory Girls,” who had a thing for servicemen?

  “Yes,” she said, as if answering my unspoken question. “I’ve kind of bounced around back and forth from Florida to California, and I met quite a few nice boys both places.”

  “California to Florida is quite a commute. Where are you from?”

  She sipped her tea, looking out at the Lindy’s clientele, probably seeking celebrity faces. “I’m not really from anywhere.”

  “Everybody’s from somewhere. I’d almost swear I heard a little New England in your voice. . . . Or maybe I’m imagining that, ’cause we met at the Boston Oyster House.”

  She laughed lightly; I had her attention again. “You are a detective. . . . I grew up in Medford, Massachusetts. But I never really felt like I lived there.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know, exactly. For a long time, even in high school days, I wintered someplace warm, because of my health—asthma . . .”

  That explained the cough.

  “. . . and maybe that’s why I’ve never felt like I belonged anywhere, except maybe—don’t laugh—Hollywood.”

  “I’m not laughing, Beth. You look like a movie star.”

  Beaming, she said, “Everybody says I look like—”

  “Deanna Durbin.”

  “That’s right.” She was obviously proud of that. “And I sing like her, too, only my voice is lower.”

  I didn’t suppose it had ever occurred to her that Hollywood already had a Deanna Durbin, name of Deanna Durbin.

  Beth was saying, dreamily, “I’ve always known, deep down inside of me, that I was different . . . special . . . that I was going to be famous someday.”

  How many pretty, ambitious, restless girls had thought that same thing? Every day of every month of every year, buxom babes like Beth left farms and small towns, forsaking family and friends and sweethearts for the lure of bright lights, boarding a bus or hitching, diamonds in their eyes and cardboard suitcases in their hands. It was one of the most standard, enduring, and little-realized American dreams.

  And yet I said, “I wouldn’t be surprised if you did become famous, Beth. You’re a lovely young woman, with a nice speaking voice, and a refined demeanor.”

  “You really think so?”

  “I really think so.”

  She spent the night with me in my suite at the Morrison. We sat on my couch and talked and talked into the night, and I heard all about her hopes and dreams and enthusiasms. She went on and on about how much she loved music—Benny Goodman, the Andrews Sisters, Kate Smith, Glenn Miller, Jo Stafford, both Bing and Frankie—and when I told her I knew Sinatra personally and that maybe I could introduce her someday, she had given me a great big kiss.

  And then we necked, like schoolkids, and for a change I was drunk not with rum but with a girl’s beauty and her perfume and those clear blue-green eyes that you wanted to dive into and splash around. We petted, and I caressed her perfect breasts—they were full and firm and more than a handful—and finally she let me undo the back of her dress and it folded down around her waist like flower petals and her skin was a remarkable alabaster, smooth and flawless, with a beauty mark on one shoulder. I kissed the buds of her breasts and she moaned with pleasure and I kissed them some more, buried my face in their soft firmness, but when my hand, stroking the suppleness of her thighs, tried to edge up between them, she took me by the wrist and drew my hand back, shaking her head, her expression almost sad, as she said, “No, no, not yet, it’s too early,” and I could understand that, since this was only our first night, so when her hand undid my zipper and her head dipped into my lap, that pile of curls bobbing up and down, working expertly, I was stunned, I was shocked, I was delighted. . . .

  I saw her three more times. Whether I picked her up at the hotel where she was freeloading off model friends, or simply met her at the Morrison, she would be dolled up in expensive clothes—either that leopard fur coat or a white fur, and black outfits with dark nylons, her white-powdered face glowing angelically in the night, red lips like a lovely scarlet wound—looking like a movie star, not a would-be actress waiting tables. She borrowed money from me every time we were together—as little as twenty, as much as a hundred—but she was not a hooker, at least she didn’t see herself that way, and I refused to see her that way.

  We would talk about each other. She described herself as Black Irish—“lace curtain, not shanty!”—and wondered why a man with a Jewish last name looked so Irish, and I explained that my father had been an apostate Jew, a leftist bookseller on the West Side, and my Irish mother, who died when I was born, had given me my red hair and Mick mug. She said she barely knew her father, that he had been an entrepreneur who had had a small chain of miniature golf courses that failed in the early years of the Depression, and disappeared, only to turn up years later in California, where she had tried to get to know him, and failed.

  Because she was so soft on servicemen, I found myself telling her how I’d been in the Marines and on Guadalcanal, since after all I had to compete with these kids in uniform she was writing her letters to; and she even wormed it out of me that I’d been awarded a Silver Star—something I never mentioned to anybody; I never talked about the war—but, what the hell, she could know anything, she could take anything, considering what she was giving.

  And I told her about Peggy, and she told me about her late fiancé, Matt, a major in the Flying Tigers who had been killed on his way home from India, in a plane crash, earlier that year.

  “That’s why I haven’t . . . you know, gone all the way with you,” she explained on my couch, the second night we were together. “I didn’t date while Matt was away, keeping true to him . . . and now that he’s
gone, I’m having to start all over again, just taking little tiny baby steps.”

  No, she wasn’t going “all the way” with me; she was just putting her head in my lap—some little baby steps! Yet for some reason, I didn’t feel like pointing out this glaring, illogical inconsistency.

  Anyway, there was more to her reluctance to perform intercourse than the memory of her dead pilot: on the third evening, she had requested a loan of one hundred dollars because she needed to see a “female-trouble doctor” in Gary.

  “You’re not pregnant, are you?” I asked.

  “No! It’s . . . something personal. Please don’t ask.”

  Maybe it was V.D. of some kind, in which case I really wasn’t anxious to change our pattern of sexual activity.

  Still, female trouble or not, I was becoming quite taken with Beth Short. She was filling the Peggy void quite nicely, and her enthusiasm for orally servicing me was—I am neither proud, nor particularly ashamed to say—intoxicating.

  On the fourth and final night we were together (she had the evening off from the Oyster House), we dined out at Henrici’s and came back to my Morrison suite, where she announced that she had indeed decided to return to California.

  “Why don’t you try staying on in Chicago, awhile?” I asked her, fixing her a Coke on ice and myself a rum and Coke on ice. “I talked to Patricia Stevens this morning—I can get you an interview.”

  That was the number-one modeling agency in town.

  “No, Nate, I appreciate it. I appreciate everything you’ve done . . . but just this morning, I spoke on the phone to a famous movie director, and he wants me to come to Hollywood, right away, to take a screen test.”

  This sounded like a pipe dream if I ever heard one. I handed her the Coke and sat next to her on the couch. “What famous director?”

  “I can’t say. He asked me not to.”

  “That’s bullshit, Beth—he’s just another asshole who wants to get in your pants.”

  “Don’t be crude, Nate—don’t be mean.”

  I was a little owly at that, at the thought of having those exquisite “baby steps” vanish from my life. “I was kind of hoping . . . I mean, I thought we were getting along pretty well. . . .”