give you a lot more exposure than if it’s published locally.”
“Uh-huh. When would you want to start?”
“Right away. Whenever you’re free.”
“I’ve got to go out of town tomorrow,” I said; “I picked up my first new client this afternoon. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”
“Why don’t you call me when you get back? Or do you want me to call you next week sometime?”
“I’ll call you, I guess. And give you a definite answer then.”
“Fine.”
We said good-bye, and I put the receiver down. That damn fantasy ran around inside my head again. Some selfless saint. Jeanne Emerson wanted to tell the world how noble I was, and all I could think about was what it would be like to go to bed with her.
Well, it was harmless speculation. Even if she was interested in me personally, which I didn’t believe for a minute, I had no intention of pursuing things with her. Maybe I would consent to letting her do the article, but that was as far as it would go. I was in love with Kerry; I would be a fool to do anything to jeopardize my relationship with her, now that we had something solid together. The last thing I needed was another complication in my life.
I started out of the bedroom-and the telephone rang again behind me. I thought it might be Kerry, because we had a date for dinner and she hadn’t been sure what time she would be through with work; but when I picked up the receiver, an unfamiliar woman’s voice said my name and asked if I was the private investigator.
I said I was, and she said, “My name is Hannah Peterson. I understand my sister hired you this afternoon.”
“If your sister is Arleen Bradford, she did.”
“Yes. Well, I wonder if I could stop by and talk to you about that? I’m in the city now, downtown; I could be at your place in about fifteen minutes. That is, if the address in the phone book is correct.”
“It is. What did you want to talk about, Mrs. Peterson?”
“Couldn’t I tell you in person? It would be so much easier.”
I remembered what Arleen Bradford had told me about her sister. If that verbal portrait was reasonably accurate, I was probably not going to like much whatever it was Hannah Peterson had to say to me. But then, I was inclined to take anything Miss A. Bradford had to say about anybody with several grains of salt. It wouldn’t hurt to talk to Mrs. Peterson, find out what was on her mind.
“Come ahead, then,” I said.
“Thanks a lot. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
I cradled the receiver and went into the living room. Usually the place was a mess; I was something of a slob when it came to housekeeping. But now that I was going to be working out of the flat for a while, until I had enough money in reserve to afford new offices, I had cleaned up the place and resolved to keep it that way. It looked pretty good. I had even dusted the shelves flanking the bay window, where nearly all of my six thousand remaining pulps were displayed.
My arm was starting to bother me a little; it hurt sometimes in the afternoon and early evening. It stiffened up just from using it in normal activity-particularly if I was out in cool or cold weather. The therapist I’d been going to the past three weeks had given me a set of exercises to do when that happened. I had other exercises to do, too, to strengthen the damaged motor nerve. The chances were good, she said, that in time I would regain full use of the hand-“less than two percent impairment,” was the way she put it-and have only occasional stiffness. She was very upbeat about the whole thing, one of these cheerful optimists; on good days she bolstered my spirits and on bad days she depressed me. You pays your money and you takes your chances. I’d know for sure which way it was going to go in another few months.
So I went through the series of exercises, went through them a second time. The hand and arm felt better when I was done, and so did I. I went out into the kitchen and made myself a cup of coffee. I was just starting to drink it, using my left hand to grip the handle, when Hannah Peterson showed up.
In answer to her ring I went and buzzed her in downstairs, then opened the apartment door and waited for her to climb the stairs. I don’t know what I expected her to be like-a slightly more appealing version of Arleen Bradford, maybe-but she was some surprise. Honey-blond hair, sloe eyes, one of those pouty Marilyn Monroe mouths painted the shade we used to call shocking pink; tall, svelte, with good hips and better breasts encased in a white pants suit that had gold threads woven through it. But there was nothing of the dumb blonde about her. If anything, she was street-wise; the sloe eyes were shrewd and calculating, and just a little hard, and when she put them on me it was like being slapped and caressed at the same time. A ballbuster, I thought. The kind who went through men like a bad wind, leaving a wreckage of broken hearts and broken spirits in her wake. No wonder Arleen Bradford hated her and probably hated men, too. There wasn’t a straight male on this earth who would look twice at prim little Arleen when fast Hannah was around.
She gave me her hand and a sultry smile, smacked me again with those eyes. She was after something, all right, and it wasn’t me. But what she didn’t know was that I was on to her. And that I found Kerry-and Jeanne Emerson, too, for that matter-a hell of a lot more exciting than I could ever find her. Blond hair and big boobs have never done much to melt my chocolate bar, as the Hollywood folks say.
So I took the hand, let go of it again, made my own smile impersonal, said, “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Peterson. Come in, won’t you?” and backed away from her.
The heat coming out of her eyes cooled a little as she stepped inside; she seemed momentarily nonplussed, as if she couldn’t understand why I was not responding to her. I turned away from her to shut the door. When I turned back again the bewilderment in her expression was gone: she thought she had me pegged now. The smile changed shape and became a sly sort of smirk. She said, “Thank you again for letting me stop by,” and the tone of her voice was different, too, with the sex bleached out of it-a kind of just-between-us-girls intimacy.
For Christ’s sake, I thought, she thinks I’m gay!
It struck me funny and I almost laughed out loud. San Francisco has the largest, most outspoken and well- publicized homosexual population in the country; a lot of people who don’t live here, who only come to the city occasionally or not at all, seem to think just about every other male or female is of the lavender persuasion. I hadn’t reacted to Hannah Peterson the way she expected, ergo I must prefer boys. It was ridiculous-but the world is full of ridiculous people.
I managed to keep a straight face, so to speak, and decided not to say anything to alter her misconception. Let her think I wore lace panties and kept a male harem; what the hell. If she knew the truth she would only turn the sex on again. And I did not want to have to deal with that.
I said, “Sit down, Mrs. Peterson. I’ve got some coffee in the kitchen if you’d like a cup.”
“No thanks. I won’t stay long.” She sat on the couch, crossed her legs, and got a pack of cigarettes out of her purse. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Go right ahead.”
She lit up, letting her eyes wander around the room as she exhaled smoke. “You have a nice apartment,” she said. “It’s so, um, masculine.”
I said, because I couldn’t resist, “An interior decorator friend of mine designed it.”
“He’s very good.”
“Yeah,” I said. “He’s a sweetie.”
“All those old detective magazines are a nice touch. Do you actually read things like that?”
“Oh no, they’re just for decoration… because I’m a private eye myself. But I’m going to get rid of them one of these days; they collect dust.”
“I imagine they must.”
“Besides, they’re full of stories about murder and violence and human fiends doing all sorts of disgusting things to women. Detective work isn’t really like that, you know.”
A faint frown line appeared on her forehead, as if she might be tumbling to the fact that I was putting her on; but then it smoothed away and she nodded seriously. She may not have been a dumb blonde, but she sure as hell was a credulous one.
But the joke had gone far enough; this was supposed to be a professional discussion. I said, “What was it you wanted to talk to me about, Mrs. Peterson?”
“My father. That photograph of him in the paper and my sister hiring you to find him.”
