“I understand what you mean. Anita would have made any man a fine wife.”
He stared at the kitchen linoleum, his head nodding again, and began to quietly weep. It gives me the creeps to see a human cry. I stood up. “Mind if I look around her room?”
He pointed to a door on the other side of the kitchen.
Poor Anita—instead of pictures of movie stars, school pennants on the wall, she had reward circulars taken from the office. There was also a proudly framed diploma from a correspondence course the kid had taken in “detection.”
I nosed around: there wasn't much, piles of old detective magazines, newspaper clippings about various stick- ups, swindles... a closet with a few worn dresses, shoes and stuff.
Mr. Rogers came in, said, “We live in a crazy age: your child dies and all you have left are your memories, a few snapshots, dresses... and pictures of criminals.”
“Anita come home yesterday afternoon?”
“Yes, while we were both working she came home, changed her dress.”
“Where's the dress she changed from?” He took it out of the closet. “The police were here this morning, went over the room.”
I said I knew... and didn't say they wouldn't be looking for the same thing I was. The dress had one pocket— it was empty. I went through her dressing-table, poked my finger in the powder-box. She had a pile of cheap costume jewelry in her drawer, some hairpins... and then I saw it! Either carelessly or wisely, Anita had tossed the sliver among the hairpins. Palming it, I slipped it into my pocket. It was almost a letdown finding it... knocked my ideas about “Cat” Franklin into a cocked hat—which I could pull over my head and call it curls.
I went through the motions of looking through the rest of her stuff, said, “Nothing here. I'll be getting on...”
Stay for a while. It's lonely here. Come on, we'll look at TV.”
We went to the living-room and he dialed in some corny dance act, opened more beer. The TV made me sleepy... I'd only had a few hours of shut-eye in the last twenty-four hours. I dozed off.
I slept hard and when I opened my eyes again, I had trouble getting the old man into focus. I yawned, said, “Sorry I dropped off. What time is it?”
“After ten. You.... What's the matter?”
I was staring at the TV screen. It was Margrita's show and she was clowning with a guest—Will Johnson looking fat and sloppy in his mailman's uniform! Margrita had on a pair of shorts that showed off her fine legs and a sort of halter that didn't hide much of the rest of her. The scene was a beach and she had Will down in the sand, was trying to kiss him. I guess it was funny—the studio audience sounded hysterical. Willie was merely acting himself—the embarrassed oaf—and she finally got his shoulders on the sand and a cop suddenly ran into the scene, made like he was a wrestling referee and slapped Margrita on the shoulders—as though she'd won the bout.
When Willie sat up, she planted a big kiss on his fat lips that made the characters in the audience give out with corny whistles... and there was a lipstick smear on Will's dazed face, and the audience howled. That kiss didn't look like any stage peck to me, looked like Margrita really went for the big jerk! And I was downright envious!
“You like her? Has a nice voice but all this leg stuff...”
I glanced at my watch. It was ten-twelve. “When does this show go off?”
“Half past ten. I think....”
“Got to run, Mr. Rogers. Have a... business appointment at ten-thirty,” I said, getting my hat.
10
I drove as fast as I could, but it was after eleven when I pulled up in front of the former movie house that was now a TV studio. The usual autograph hounds were hanging around the entrance, and as I parked my car, they set up a howl. Margrita—in a flowery red dress—and Will were pushing through the crowd toward a sleek, chauffeured car. This was strictly a Cadillac-rich job; it had a lot of shiny gadgets on it and two big silver aerials that stood up like outriggers on a fishing boat. I tried to fight my way through the crowd but couldn't buck the women and kids tightly clutching their stupid autograph books. I ran back and got into my struggle-buggy.
It was easy to follow them, and I kept wondering what she saw in a slob like Will. They got out in front of one of these swank residential hotels on Park Avenue and Will's puss had the goofy how-did-this-happen-to-me? look of a guy who knows he's going to bed with a dream gal.
Parking on a side street, I decided to wait till he came out, nail him for the truth about the rock. I stared up at the building, wondering which one of the lighted apartments was hers. The doorman was a guy I felt sorry for; dressed like a rear admiral in a technicolor musical. I said, “Wasn't that Margrita I saw come in a few minutes ago?”
“Yes, sir. Sure is pretty.”
“Quite a car she has, too.”
He leaned over, whispered, “Rented job. Part of her publicity.”
“You don't say.” I pointed to a couple of windows over the entrance. “Guess you see plenty, with her living right up there?”
“No, she lives in the penthouse, around there,” he said, pointing to the side street. He looked down at me with an amused glance. “One of her fans, junior?”
“Any chance of getting her autograph?” I asked, giving him a goof-grin.
“Always bothered with you pests. Have to wait all night to catch her now. She told her chauffeur she was in for the night.”
I went back to the side street, looked up at the top of the hotel like a hick. I could see the lighted windows of what I thought was the penthouse, and while I was straining my neck, the lights went out. I walked back to the
