“Has he gotten physical?”
She frowned. “I wouldn’t have sex with him again for a million dollars.”
“I mean, has he hit you?”
“He’s grabbed me.” She turned her palms up and I could see small bruises on her inner forearms.
“We can get a court order,” I said.
“What?”
“A restraining order, where he can’t come within a hundred feet of you.”
“No! No, I don’t want to involve the authorities. That’s why I came to you, Mr. Heller.”
“I understand you requested me, specifically?”
“Yes, I read about you in the newspapers.”
I’d had coverage, locally, when I’d been involved on the fringes of the notorious Elizabeth Short murder, the so called Black Dahlia slaying. Other cases of mine over the years had hit the national wire services, too; I was a minor celebrity myself, even if I didn’t look good in a bikini.
“Well,” I said, “you’re lucky to find me. Usually I’m in the Chicago office.”
“Will you take my case?”
“First you better tell me what it is you want me to do. Scare him, hurt him, what?”
She shook her head, eyes tightening in a frown. “I don’t really want him hurt. I was…fond of him, once.”
“Okay. What, then?”
“Just protect me. Talk to Paul…. He’s pretty tough, though. He’s a soldier.”
I smiled. “That’s okay. I used to be a Marine.”
“Ooooo, really?” The “ooooo” had been a sort of squeal. “I love men in uniform.”
“Except for Paul.”
Her smile disappeared, and she nodded, like a school kid realizing she’d gotten a little too wild in the classroom. “Except for Paul…. What do you charge? I don’t have a lot of money.”
“We’ll work something out,” I said.
And all I meant by that was I’d take into consideration that she was just a college kid, a sweet girl from Texas trying to get an education. Really. Honest. No kidding.
“I’m sure we will,” she said, her expression and tone mingled with lasciviousness in a unique way that somehow scared me a little. I felt like the Wolf discovering Little Red Riding Hood was packing heat.
I agreed to meet her in the assembly hall of the MAC at UCLA around seven; she was rehearsing
“I’m afraid I play a sort of floozy,” she said.
“I didn’t think you were playing Willie Loman.”
“You know the play?”
“Saw Lee J. Cobb in it in the Chicago run, early this year. Good show—won’t make much of a musical.”
She blinked. “Are they making a musical out of it?”
“That was just a joke.”
Her smile looked like a wax kiss. “You’re quite a kidder, aren’t you, Mr. Heller?”
“I’m hilarious.”
Now she was studying me. “Are you depressed?”
“Depressed? No. Hell no.”
“Did…somebody die in your family?”
Just my marriage.
“No. But you’re a funny kid yourself, Miss Palmer.”
Now her smile shifted, dimpling one cheek. “You think I’m stupid, don’t you? From that musical remark. Well, I have a high IQ, I’ll have you know…and I’m going to make something of myself. That’s why I’m enrolled in college…and that’s why you have to make sure Paul doesn’t spoil things.”
“I’ll see what I can do. You have a photo?”
“Now I do! I had scads taken, after that business at the
“No, I mean of Paul.”
“Oh! Yes. Of course.” She dug into her purse and handed me a photo of herself and Paul, dressed up for the prom, apparently; Vera was smiling at the camera—and why not, it loved her—and he was a dark-haired handsome kid with thick dark eyebrows, a weakish chin, and a glazed expression.
“Can I have the photo back when you’re done?”
