Strip For Violence

couldn't be the rock, they already had that. Or did they? I thought till my head ached but nothing came. I still felt the rock was behind everything, but I was damned if I knew why. I went over every job we'd had in the last month, everybody I'd met or spoken to, and it all ended in a dead end.

Bobo came breezing in a half hour later, asking, “Why the early morning rush call? Got a big job that...?”

I told him about Anita and he fell into a chair, his rough face going pale as he mumbled, “That poor kid... murdered? But... why?”

“'Why' will be the jackpot at the end of our rainbow. When we know 'why'—we know all the answers. She called yesterday at six and told me she had a supper date at some joint on 60th Street and First Avenue. In her language a joint meant a ginmill, so we can assume she lucked up on something during the afternoon and...”

Bobo stared at me. “Lucked up? Some luck!”

“... and made that date for supper. She had to take the rod before I returned to the office yesterday at about five, so that meant she expected things to happen at supper. But she came aboard my boat shortly after midnight and I took the gun from her so...”

“Hal, for Christsakes! You... you let her go to... wherever she was going... without a rod? Why that's the same as...”

“Shut up, Bobo! How did I know she was in danger or that... Oh hell, Anita was always playing cops and robbers. The thing is, she didn't seem frightened on the boat. She was gay, excited, maybe she expected something big to break. The last thing on her mind was death. No, she either met the killer at the ginmill and made another date with him—or her—or she was fingered there for the after-midnight date where she... got it.”

Bobo cupped his square jaw in his wide hands, said softly, in Spanish, “May God have mercy on her soul.” Then he added in a louder voice, “She was a funny kid—played detective once too often. And who parked it on your lip? What's the matter, Hal, why you staring at me?”

“You just said most of the answer—she played detective once too often. If we could find out who she was playing with, or rather who wasn't playing with her, we'd get places.”

“The big IF. Who busted your lip?”

“A cop with big ideas. Come on, let's clean up this office.”

3

At nine-thirty I called the New York State Employment Service, told them I needed a secretary. Then I got Thelma Johnson on the phone. She said, “Will's working. Did you find anything...?”

“Where's he work?”

“W-what did you find out?” Her voice was so eager she nearly stuttered.

“Nothing, yet. What post office does Will work out of?”

“164th Street near Amsterdam. Tell me, did...?”

“Later,” I said, hanging up. I dialed the post office, but all some snotty-voiced character would tell me was, “Mr. Johnson will be off duty at two... You can see him then.”

It was a messy job picking up the papers, sorting them. About an hour later the door opened and a slight, brown-skinned young woman stood there. She wore a print dress and owlish-looking glasses, and on second look she was rather pretty. “What do you want?” I barked.

She held out a card.

“I'm not buying any...”

Bobo asked if she spoke Spanish and she said, “You asked for a stenographer.” She had a clear, fierce voice that was like a chip on her shoulder.

“Yeah. What...? Oh,” I took the card. Her name was Shirley Lee. “I'm Hal Darling, this is Bobo Martinez. I run a detective agency. We've had a little rough stuff, but that doesn't usually happen. Can you type, take dictation, Shirley?”

“Miss Lee, to you. The office wouldn't have sent me if I couldn't do office work,” she said coldly.

For a moment I didn't get it, then I knew—my barking at her, the brush-off she must have received as “colored” on other jobs. “The job pays $40 a week, five days, nine to five. We have a simple routine—not hard work—but for the next day you'll be busy getting these files back in order. Want the job?”

“Yes, Mr. Darling.”

“Take off your hat and start working. By the way, everybody calls each other by first names around here. Right, Bobo?

“Sure. Here, I'll show you how we file these cards, Miss... Shirley,” Bobo said.

Telling Bobo to hang around and wait for me, I drove up to 164th Street and Amsterdam Avenue, which wasn't far from Louise's place. The first postman I saw told me Will's route was “Some place on 170th Street.”

I had to drive around the neighborhood a few times till I saw Will go into an apartment house. He seemed to have a little guy tailing him. I went in. Will had his bag on the floor, was busy putting letters into the nest boxes. When he saw me he said, “Hey, get out of here. Have an inspector timing the route. Can't talk to you, see? Find anything?”

“I want to ask you a few...”

“Later. You want me to lose my job?”

“Well... Okay, where?”

“I'll be in your office about three. You find where the rock came from?”