I wrote on the back of one of my cards, “I've found Marion Lodge. She wants to see you. I'm in the lobby.” Handing the card to the clerk, I told him, “Send this message up.”
“I did not say Miss de Mayo was in.”
“And neither did you say she was out. Send this up.” He rang for a bellhop and I put half a buck on top of the card. I only had to hang around the lobby a few minutes before the desk phone rang and the clerk told me, “Kindly go up to Penthouse B. Front elevators.” He sounded as bored as ever.
Margrita opened the door herself, wearing a bright-red robe that clung to her fine body. I nodded and stepped inside. She had an expensive suite of rooms, all the furniture very modern and correct—and all of it the hotel's. Atop a wire and glass table there was a cheap china statue of a baby doll, kind of junk you win at Coney Island, and probably the only thing Margrita had added to the place.
She didn't have any make-up on and her face looked hard. Judging from the tiny balls of pus in the corners of her eyes, she must have just gotten up. She motioned toward a stuffed chair and I sat down. She squatted on a blue-leather hassock opposite me, her robe falling away, those wonderful legs pointing at me. I glanced at them once, comparing them with Laurie's muscular stems. Margrita lit a cigarette without offering me one, asked, “How's Marion?”
“I don't know, how are you?”
She blew out a dainty stream of smoke, asked, “Where did you get that dopey idea?”
“Cut it, baby. I stumbled on it, but if you want me to prove it the hard way, I can.”
“You're a lousy detective. Made a big mistake, I'm not..”
“Look, I'm tired, don't make me work. Marion was once pinched for hustling, her prints are in the police files. I can get yours any.... What's the point of going through that routine? All I want you to do is get in touch with my client, tell him what you want done with the farm.” I wrote Guy Moore's name and address on a card, dropped it in her lap and started for the door.
She ran over, grabbed my shoulder, spun me around like I was a toy top. “Stop the crap,” she said. “I'll pay you once, that's all!”
“Already been paid for locating you. Far as I'm concerned, the case is closed.”
“You think I'm simple? You have me over a barrel, with my past—”
“Look, your past is exactly that—past. Whoring is a crummy job and a person takes a crummy job only because they're hungry. I'm no Boy Scout, but neither do I set myself up as a judge of anybody's personal business. Only...”
“Come on, when does the shakedown start? Told you, I'll pay once, then...”
“Only personal feelings I have about all this.... I'm glad you made it, got out of the racket.”
“On the level?” Her eyes searched my face.
“So long, baby.” She still blocked the door. She stared at me for a long minute, then began to cry—hard, hoarse, jerky sobs. She suddenly leaned against me and I took her in my arms, only it was comical—my head hardly came up to her shoulders. I walked her over to the couch, said, “Take it easy, Margrita, that's all over.”
“You don't understand,” she mumbled. “My uncle was all the family I had. He was a gruff old man and I thought he hated me, yet—you don't know how much he loved the land, that was the only thing he really cared for, and he left that to me! This last year, I could have helped him with money, he always was poor as a church mouse, a few bucks would have made things easier for him... all I had for him was hate. That's why I didn't go home when I was on the verge of getting into the racket, thought he didn't want me. And here he left me his farm, not to his son in Chicago, or his sister up in Canada, but to me.”
“Hard to judge people, or even judge yourself,” I said, sounding like the hayseed philosopher.
“Now, I can't even claim the farm....”
“Nonsense. Dye your hair and you'll be Marion Lodge to the folks back there. Or write Moore that you'll take the farm, have him arrange to pay the taxes, rent it or sell it, and you don't have to go home. Use a P.O. box address for Marion Lodge, or my office, if you wish.”
She dried her face on my sleeve. “You know, I really believe you are on the level. Or I want to believe it... but never met a man yet who wasn't a selfish louse.”
“You merely haven't been around much,” I said softly, knowing I'd played my cards right—in a minute she'd pay off.
She stood up, bent down till her face was close to mine. “You're a strange little guy. I like you.”
She gave me a big kiss—the real thing, not a whore's lip massage. She pulled me toward her and I could feel all the soft curves through her robe, knew I could have her—that she really wanted me.
But I didn't give a damn!
12
Okay, IT amazed me too, but at that moment, with one of the most beautiful women on Broadway pressing me against her body, all I could think of was holding Laurie!
In a way it was a pleasant shock to realize how much I went for the kid.
Kissing her back, a brotherly peck, I pulled out of that wonderful embrace, feeling a bit like a fool. “Margrita, I've been on the square with you, want you to do the same for me. Going to ask you a couple questions that can be TNT, so if you don't want to answer, say so. But don't sell me any bunko stories. What's 'Cat' Franklin to you?”
She stiffened, her eyes turned cunning and tough, her hands fell away from me. She got another cigarette. I said, “Whatever you tell me stays with me, I promise you that. Let me guess—Franklin was running the call-girl racket, wouldn't let you pull out entirely when you got your break on TV?”
She didn't move a muscle, her eyes didn't tell me any-thing.
