We wandered back inside together, and split off faster than the marrieds around this joint did. I went over and buttonholed the stocky doorkeeper, Joe Freitas.
“You wouldn’t happen to know Lt. Stockdale, would you, Joe?” I was asking this question over the edge of a shiny half-dollar.
Joe snatched the half-buck and jerked a thumb upward. “Booth upstairs. Tall good-lookin’ fella. Short curly yella hair.”
Stockdale was, as the doorkeeper had promised, a blond-haired bruiser, ruggedly handsome; he had a flask and two glasses, an ashtray with two burning cigarettes, and a skinny but pretty brunette he was nuzzling. Both he and his lady friend were tipsier than a three-legged table.
“Sure, I’ll talk to you!” he exploded, good-naturedly drunk. “Sit yourself down. This is Betty. She’s Bill Ransom’s wife—except for tonight.” And he let out a horse laugh and Betty’s giggle evolved into an unladylike snort.
I slid into the booth. “I hear the night Thalia Massie was assaulted, you and she had a little run-in.”
“Hey, first off,” he said, overcompensating with his enunciation in an effort to be soberly serious, “I’m as against niggers raping white women as the next guy.”
“That’s an admirable view.”
“Just because Thalia Massie is a lousy stuck-up slut is no reason niggers should go around raping her. That character, Joe Ka-ha-what’s-it?
“What happened that night, Ray? Between you and Thalia, I mean.”
He shrugged. “We was eatin’, and me and the wife and another coupla couples.” He gestured vaguely off to the right. “Over in one of the private dinin’ rooms. Thalia come stumblin’ in, drunk as skunk, uninvited.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Nobody liked Thalia, snooty little bitch. Little Miss Sassiety Butter-Wouldn’t-Fucking-Melt- in-Her-Pussy.”
Ah yes. As Olds had said, you make special friends on submarine duty.
“She come waltzin’ in here, and we just ignore her. She wasn’t invited! And she just stands there with her goddamn nose in the air, and clears her throat and says, ‘Don’t you know a lady’s entered the room.’ I says, ‘I don’t see any.’ About then, Jimmy Bradford comes in, lookin’ for her I guess…they used to be kind of an item, y’know. Anyway, pouty little bitch says, ‘You’re no gentleman, Lt. Stockdale,’ and Bradford says, ‘Take it easy, baby, this is a public place.’ But Miss Sassiety Bitch struts up and sticks her chin in my face and says, ‘I don’t care! You’re no gentleman, Lt. Stockdale, talkin’ to me like that!’ I says, ‘Well, Thalia, who gives a shit what a lousy slut like you thinks, anyway.’ Which is when she slapped me.”
This hadn’t been in the transcript material I’d been provided! No wonder Doris Olds had referred to Thalia as “slap-happy.”
“Yeah.” He touched his jaw. “She whaled me a good one.”
“Then what happened?”
He shrugged. “She stormed outa there. Good thing, too. I’da kicked her fat ass, if she hadn’t, and the other fellas hadn’t been holding me back. I was well and truly pissed off. Then, I guess somebody went looking for Tommie, to tell him what happened. He come looking for her, but she was long gone, o’ course.”
“When was this?”
“I dunno. Eleven-thirty, maybe.”
I thanked Stockdale and left him to his guzzling and nuzzling, and searched out the doorkeeper again.
“Joe, did you hear anything about a fuss upstairs involving Mrs. Massie, the night of the assault?”
“She slap some sailor, I hear.”
“Did you see her leave? I mean, did she come flying down the stairs and go rushing out?”
Joe shook his head, no. “That was a busy night. I was showin’ people to their seats, not always watchin’ the door.”
“You didn’t see her leave, sometime between eleven-thirty and midnight?”
“No…but I did see somethin’ else.”
“What?”
His smile was friendly but his eyes were mercenary. “I’m tryin’ to remember, boss.”
I dug out a dollar for him. “Does this jog it?”
“Comin’ back to me, boss. I remember her, that girl in the green dress. When her party come in that night, it was the first big party to arrive, and she walk ahead of others, with her head bent over. I thought maybe she was mad at somebody, or maybe drunk already.”
“That’s not worth a buck, Joe. Keep trying.”
“Okay. But I think maybe this is worth two dollars.”
“Try me and see.”
“Oh-kay. I remember seein’ her standin’ by the doorway about midnight, little after, maybe. She was talkin’ to Sammy.”
That perked me up. “Who’s Sammy?”
“Sammy’s worth two dollars, easy.”
