True Detective

and once in the corridor, led her to my office. She went in, I took her coat and hung it on the tree, and she stood poised, purse in two hands like a fig leaf in front of her.

She was stunning, in an oddball way: she was deathly pale, partially from face powder, but her lips were dark red, a red with black in it; she wore black, completely black- a one-piece slinky dress that wanted to be satin but was cotton, with a slit up to her knee, black heels, sheer black hose with a mesh pattern. The effect, with the beret, was vaguely apache dancer, but also vaguely naive. Play-acting was part of this, somehow.

I hung my own topcoat up, gestured to the chair in front of my desk, which I got behind; she sat with her back straight, her head back a bit. She reached a hand out to me across the desk, which I had to stand to take; I wasn't sure if I was supposed to kiss it or shake it, so I just kind of took it, taking the tips of four fingers in my hand and squeezing gently, acknowledging the hand's existence, then sitting down.

'My name is Mary Ann Beame,' she said. 'That's Beame with an E. A silent one. I don't have a stage name.'

'You don't?'

'That's my real name. I don't believe in stage names. I'm an actress.'

'Really?'

'I've done some little theater, here and there.'

Very little theater. I thought.

'I see,' I said.

She sat up even straighter, wide-eyed. 'Oh! Don't worry. I'm not destitute. Just because I'm an actress.'

'I didn't assume you were.'

'I have an income. I work in radio.'

'No kidding?'

'Yes. It makes a tidy living for me, till I can go on to something better. Do you listen to the radio?'

'When I get the chance. I been meaning to pick one up for the office.'

She looked around, as if trying to see where to put this radio, once I bought it. She noticed the Murphy bed and pointed toward it; the gesture was theatrical, but somehow I didn't think this was coming from snobbishness. 'Isn't that a Murphy bed?' she asked.

'It might be,' I said.

She shrugged to herself, not bothering to understand either the Murphy bed or my remark, and looked across the desk at me. smiled and said. 'Just Plain Bill.'

'Pardon?'

'That's the sudser I'm on. 'Just Plain Bill' I do several voices, one of them a lead. I do that regularly, and pick up a lot of other shows. Have you heard 'Mr. First-Nighter'? That's where I've done my best work, I think.'

'I'm more an 'Amos 'n' Andy' man, myself.'

'They do all their own voices,' she said, rather sadly, as it wasn't a market for her wares.

'I'm glad a serious actress like yourself has no compunctions about working in radio. A lot of actresses might feel above it.'

'A number of splendid actors and actresses are working in Chicago radio, Mr. Heller. Francis X. Bushman. Irene Rich. Frank Dane.'

'Eddie Cantor,' I offered.

'Not in Chicago.' she corrected.

'Well, then. We've established you're gainfully employed Now, why is it you wanted to employ me?'

Her face took on a serious cast; the pretension dropped, and concern came through. She dug in her little black purse and came up with a dog-eared snapshot.

'Here's a photo of Jimmy.'

She handed it across the desk to me; it was a photo of her and a boy who looked a bit like her. though he was pudgy. It was several years old; possibly when they were still in their late teens.

'We were twins,' she said. 'Still are. I suppose.'

'Not identical twins. I hope,' I said, venturing a small smile.

'No,' she said distantly, not getting it.

I started to hand the picture back, and she shook her head no.

'Keep that,' she said. 'I want you to find him.'

'How long has he been missing?'

'Well, he isn't missing exactly… it's nothing you could go to the police about. I mean, it isn't a missing persons case or anything like that.'

'What is it, then, Miss Beame?'

'Call me Mary Ann. Please.'

'All right, Mary Ann. Why is your brother not exactly missing?'