High Priest of California & Wild Wives: Two Novels, page 10
“Marin County,” I said.
“Why?”
“To get a motel room for the night.”
“Oh.” She didn’t sing anymore. I stopped at a roadside market and bought a fifth of I.W Harper and a sack of ice cubes. When I returned to the car Alyce was singing again. I kept my eyes open for a motel with a VACANCY sign.
Chapter Fourteen
I GOT OUT OF BED and lighted the heater. Sunlight was filtering through the cheesy, grayish burlap curtains but the room was cold. It was one of those concrete-brick rooms, whitewashed for Spanish effect, with black wrought iron curtain rods and cheap Monterey furniture. There was one good-sized drink in the bottle. I looked at Alyce. She was still asleep. I drank it.
I took a shower and returned to the heater to towel myself. Alyce was awake and bunking at me. Her modesty had completely left her now and she sat up in bed, exposing herself in the filtered sunlight.
“Good morning, darling.” She stretched and it was suddenly called to my attention that she was at least three days overdue to shave under her arms.
“Good morning. How’s your head?”
“I feel wonderful. Is the water hot in the shower?”
“Scalding. In fact you can’t adjust it properly.”
“That’s for me then.” She got out of bed and threw her arms around me and gave me a kiss. I would have been happier about the kiss if her teeth had been brushed first. I put my clothes on. I hated the feel of my socks, worn the entire day before, but I had no clean ones. I was smoking my second cigarette when Alyce came out of the bathroom. She stood shivering in front of the heater drying herself with the motel bath towel.
“I hope I didn’t get my hair too wet,” she said.
“Just a little bit around the edges.”
“I should have brought a shower cap.”
“I should’ve brought some clean socks.”
I watched her dress. It was like we’d been married for ten years. I thanked the Lord and all the stone gods on Easter Island that we weren’t married! I wanted another drink. She shimmied into her girdle. A roll of fat protruded a good inch over the top. All women had that roll; why should I have been surprised? It was merely because I hadn’t noticed it before. That was all. She combed and combed her hair. She put on makeup, adding the extra above her upper lip to make it even with the lower. She put on her jacket and turned, placing a hand on her hip, throwing her pelvis up and forward like a model.
“How do I look?”
“Just the way you’re supposed to look,” I said. “Come on.”
She started to kiss me, remembered her lipstick and changed her mind. I opened the door and we went outside. In spite of the carport, a fine film of dew covered the seats of the Rambler, and I regretted not putting the top up before we’d gone inside. But last night I’d been in a hurry. It was understandable. I returned to the room and brought out the unused face towel and wiped the seat. Alyce got in and I started the engine. I let it warm up for a full minute, backed out and eased down the driveway in first gear to the office. I threw the key at the office door as we went by. It missed the door and landed in a geranium bush.
I looked at my watch again. It was still early, just 7:30. I drove slowly, enjoying the contrast of hot sunlight and cold air. It was another beautiful day. I was hungry.
“How about breakfast, Alyce?”
“Do we have time?”
“It’s only seven-thirty. You have to eat.”
“All right.”
There was a drive-in a mile down the road. I pulled into the slot reserved for the patrons who wanted to eat inside. We entered. I had sausage and eggs while Alyce drank a glass of orange juice and a cup of coffee. We were both silent during breakfast. I didn’t want to say anything because I wanted to delay telling Alyce it was all over. Alyce acted like she was afraid to speak. I finished with two cups of coffee and two cigarettes. As I lighted the second cigarette I looked at Alyce. Her eyes were too bright. The tragic lines were sharper and were etched deeply from the wings of her nose to the corners of her mouth. She was a woman built for suffering and tragedy. It was written in every line of her face. My expression must have been distasteful. Her lower lip began to quiver. It looked funny, like it was the only nerve she had left.
“Are you sorry?” I asked her.
“No. Are you?” Her voice had a catch in it. It wasn’t that the catch in her voice was practiced: it was just that I knew it would always be there. It would be there if a man came home drunk; if he missed coming home one night; if he put ashes on the rug or raised his voice. I knew it. In that moment I pitied every married man I’d ever known.
“Of course not, baby,” I said. “I just don’t talk much in the morning. It was a wonderful night.”
“You do love me, don’t you, Russell?”
“Of course. Do you want another cup of coffee?”
“No, thanks. I want you to know that last night was the most wonderful thing that ever happened to me. You’re the kindest, the sweetest—I love you, Russell.” She sighed.
“I love you too. Now let’s get the hell out of here.” I paid the cashier and we went outside. I put Alyce in the car, walked around and got in myself. She was smiling at me, a brave smile that said, “As long as you love me nothing else matters!” I’d seen that type of smile before. Too many times.
I rode along with the traffic stream. The highway had filled with commuters from Marin County going to work in the city. I took my time. Within a few minutes we were on the swooping downgrade that led through the tunnel and onto the approach to the bridge. A few scattered whirls of fog hugged the ground but the sun was bright and the bay glittered. I got into the center lane and held it to the tollgate. I paid the forty cents and as we left the tollgate I looked at Alyce. She didn’t look so good. Her face was pale and her eyes were on the handbag she was twisting in her lap.
“Do you want to go home first or to the garage?” I asked.
“I guess I’d better go home first—to see how things are.”
“All right.”
“Russell—” She hesitated.
“Yes?”
“Have I done anything wrong?”
“Not unless you think so.”
“What I mean is—are you mad at me?”
“No. Should I be?”
“You’ve acted so funny this morning. Did I say anything, or—”
“For Christ’s sake!”
It seemed to be the only way they could end. In tears, always in tears. I was right. Big juicy tears bubbled up and streaked down her cheeks. The tragic lines caught them, turned them under her mouth and they dropped from her chin. I let her cry for a moment. It was completely noiseless. Then I handed her my handkerchief:
“Here. That isn’t going to do you any good.”
“Then you are mad at me?”
“No. I’m not mad. I’m just taking you home. You have a job, I have a job. We have to go to work and the time to play is over.”
“Will I see you tonight?”
“No. Not tonight.
“When then?”
“Don’t try to pin me down, Alyce!” I was getting sore.
“That’s all you wanted then, just to sleep with me and that was all. Now it’s over, isn’t it?”
I’d hoped to avoid all this, but she’d asked for it.
“That’s right. You catch on quick. We’re approaching your corner; or do you want me to drop you in front of the house?”
“Here will do.” She handed my handkerchief back to me, got out and slammed the door. “This is pretty hard to take, Russell.”
“I guess it is. Well, Alyce, I won’t say it’s been nice because it hasn’t. See you.” I put the car into first gear.
“Just like that.” She was staring at me like she couldn’t believe it.
“Just like that.” I let the clutch out fast and the car leaped away from the curb. I looked back once in the rearview mirror. Alyce was walking up the hill and she looked tired.
It wasn’t quite nine yet. Instead of going to my apartment I drove to the lot and parked the Rambler. Tad was standing by the office chewing the end of a cigar.
“I’m going to get a shave,” I told him. “Be back in a few minutes.”
“Okay, Russ. You ought to shut your eyes before you bleed to death.”
“You ought to see them from this side,” I said. I entered the office and tossed the car keys on the counter. Madeleine twitched herself up from her typewriter, took the keys and put them on the rack. I took a good look at her. I wondered if she’d appreciate me. A well-built, uncomplicated woman, Madeleine.
“You know what, Madeleine: we ought to go down to the beach and catch Kenton tonight. What do you say?”
“I have a date.”
“You could break it.”
“Not this one. I’ll take a raincheck.”
“Suit yourself.”
I cut across the lot and went into Thrifty’s and bought a pair of socks. Bruno’s Barber Shop was next door. There was a man in the chair, and while Bruno finished cutting his hair I changed socks, throwing the dirty pair in the towel hamper. I doubt if Bruno liked it but he didn’t say anything. I was next.
I lay back in the chair. The hot towel felt wonderful on my face. I thought of Madeleine. She didn’t have a date. She’d come around before the day was over with some story about how her date was called out of town unexpectedly or something like that. I must have sighed.
“Towel too hot, Mr. Haxby?” Bruno asked.
“No. Not hot enough.” It was an effort to answer. He changed the towel. I was tired. I could have slept all day right in that chair. I was almost asleep, then I didn’t fight it any more. I drifted down down . . . what the hell, Bruno’d wake me when he was through.
WILD WIVES
First published as a paperback original by Beacon Books, New York, 1956, in an edition bound with High Priest of California. Willeford’s intended title was Death Takes a Bride.
Chapter One
THE RAIN HIT HARD at my window. It slowed down to a whisper, then hit hard again. All afternoon the rain had been doing this while I sat behind my desk with my feet up, doing nothing. I looked around the ratty little office and wondered vaguely what time it was.
It wasn’t much of an office. The four walls were painted a sickly lime-green, and the only bright spot in the room was the famous Marilyn Monroe calendar with its flame-red background. Two ladder-backed straight chairs, a two-drawer file cabinet, a cheap combination typing-and-writing desk and a swivel-chair completed the furnishings. The rugless floor was laid with brown and yellow linoleum blocks. As I sat facing the door, looking over my feet at the milk-glass pane, I could see in reverse the lettering of my name:
JACOB C. BLAKE
PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS
Behind me was my single window with its excellent view of the air shaft. The office was on the mezzanine of the King Edward Hotel and it was probably the worst location for a private investigator in San Francisco. But I hung onto it for two reasons. One: I lived in the hotel. Two: It was cheap.
I lit a cigarette and tried my best to blow smoke rings. After several tries I blew a good one. While I watched it disintegrate the door opened and a girl entered. She was young and she held a pistol in her hand. I left my feet on the desk and raised my arms in the air as high as I could reach.
“Stick ‘em up!” the girl said, out of the corner of her mouth.
“They are up.” My voice came out higher than I’d ever heard it before. My body felt suddenly cold and damp. The girl came around to the side of my desk, shoved the pistol into my face and pulled the trigger. A jet of lukewarm water splashed on my forehead and dribbled into my eyes. The girl made a noise; a foolish, school-girl giggle.
My fear had become unreasoning anger. I jerked the black water pistol out of her hand and broke it in two. I threw the shattered plastic into the wastebasket, twisted my hands into the lapels of the girl’s gabardine raincoat and started shaking her. I shook her so hard her head whipped back and forth like a marionette’s. When she started to cry I cooled off. I shoved her into a chair and sat down again in my own. My hands were trembling from the combination of fear, anger, and now sudden remorse for ill-treating the girl. I took a calmer look at her.
She seemed about fifteen years old. A mop of auburn poodle-cut curls topped a pretty, innocent, delicate face. She carried a small, black patent-leather handbag and her shoes were single-strap Mary Janes. She took a tiny handkerchief out of her purse and dabbed at her blue eyes.
“You hurt me.” Her voice was a bubbling, light soprano.
“You scared me.”
“I was just having a little fun.”
“It wasn’t funny!”
She giggled. “You should have seen your face!”
“What were you trying to prove, anyway?” I smiled in spite of myself.
“I’m waiting for my brother,” she explained.
“I see. You thought I was your brother.”
“No! Freddy’s visiting Mr. Davis in his room and he told me to wait for him in the lobby.”
“This is the mezzanine.”
“I know that! But I’ve been waiting for over an hour, and I’ve been exploring sort of, to kill time. I saw your office, and I wondered what a private detective would do if someone tried to stick him up, and then I remembered I had my little brother’s water pistol with me—”
“The brother Freddy, visiting Mr. Davis—”
“No! My little brother’s water pistol! Freddy’s my big brother. He’s eighteen years old!”
“He won’t let you use his water pistol?”
“My goodness! He doesn’t even have one! That was my little brother’s water pistol you broke up, and I’ll have to get him a new one.”
“What’s his name?”
“Melvin. Melvin Allen.”
“And what’s your name?”
“Barbara Ann. They call me Bobby, but I hate it. Don’t you?”
“Is your last name Allen too?”
“Of course it is, and my big brother Freddy, the one upstairs visiting Mr. Davis—his name is Allen, too!”
“Then it isn’t Freddy?”
“Yes! Freddy Allen.”
“The one upstairs. The one who doesn’t own a water pistol.”
“That’s right. My, you sure do have a hard time understanding things!”
“I think I’ll give you a spanking.” I was having a lot of fun with the girl. Barbara Ann had put some life into a dull, dreary day. Her eyes widened, and for a moment, she stared at me with a scared expression on her innocent face. Then the corners of her mouth turned up slightly and formed a knowing, truly feminine smile. Without a word she got up from her chair, removed her raincoat, folded it, and put it on the seat. She leaned well over the desk, reached behind her and lifted her plaid skirt, exposing pink panties and a firm, beautifully rounded bottom.
“Go ahead,” she said calmly. “Spank me. I deserve it.”
This was my second surprise of the afternoon. And I would have enjoyed giving a spanking to her. But my native intelligence came to my rescue. I reached over and pulled her skirt down, resisting my strong desire to pat her nicely rounded buttocks.
“I didn’t think you’d do it,” she said scornfully, tossing her curls. She put her raincoat back on.
“You knew I wouldn’t do it,” I said, “but you’d better watch out for that cute little rear end of yours. Next time, you might not be so lucky. And now, with that fatherly advice, you can leave. Beat it.”
I put my feet back up on the desk. Barbara Ann pulled a chair up close and sat down. She was prim and business-like. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap and there was a set, serious glint in her blue eyes.
“Mr. Blake,” she began earnestly, “I proved something when I came in here with that toy pistol. I showed you how alert I was, and how nervy a younger girl can be. Why, no one would ever suspect a girl like me of being a private detective, and I could get away with almost anything.”
“Go on.”
“Well, I’m still going to high school, but I don’t go on Saturdays, and I can stay out real late at night, and Daddy never says anything. Many times I come in as late as eleven o’clock and still he doesn’t say anything. So how about giving me a part-time job working for you?” She sat back in the chair.
“How old are you, Barbara?”
“I’m going on sixteen, but I look a lot older.”
“I can see how old you look.” I shook my head. “That’s too young. I’d lose my license. But even if you were older I couldn’t give you a job, kid. I don’t have enough business to keep myself busy.”
“Oh, you don’t have to pay me, Mr. Blake! I’ll work for the experience—”
“I’m sorry, Barbara. I can read your mind. You think that being a private detective is a glamorous, exciting job—well, it isn’t. It’s a boring, underpaid profession. Doors slammed in your face, creditors after you all the time; soliciting work from cheap loan outfits, and you end up nine times out often with the dirty end of the stick. You don’t want any part of it.”
“But I do! And I’m going to sit right here until you give me an assignment.” She set her pretty lips in a tight line.
“All right.” I owed her something for the dirty trick she had played on me with the water pistol. “I’ll give you an assignment. Without pay, of course.”
“I told you, I don’t care about that!”
“Listen carefully, then.” I made up a lie. “Do you know where the big ‘E’ department store is?”
“The Emporium? Of course.”
“Well, tomorrow, Saturday, they’re having a sale on women’s ostrich-skin pocketbooks. These are very expensive, you know. Now, I’ve heard something through my sources in the underworld, which I can’t divulge to anyone—you understand that?”
“Of course. You can’t expose your stoolies.”
