She moistened her lower lip. I could feel one of those comely mature thighs against my own.
'Besides,' I said, 'it's a dry heat.'
'Everyone says that, don't they?'
'Everyone,' I said.
'Where are you staying?' she said.
'Jack Rabbit Inn.'
She put her hand out. I took it.
'Nice to have met you, Mr. Spenser,' she said.
'You too,' I said.
'If I think of anything, perhaps I'll call you,' she said.
'Anything at all,' I said.
She smiled and stared into my eyes.
'Yes,' she said.
Chapter 5
I COMPARED THE list from Lou Buckman with the list from Bebe Taylor. Bebe's list started with a guy named Mark Ratliff. Mary Lou's list didn't name him. Since I assumed he was first on Bebe's list because he was the first one she thought of, he seemed a good choice to visit next.
Ratliff had his office in a corner building with a rounded false front that made it look like a nineteenth-century saloon. There was a glass window to the right of the entry door, in which hung a stained-glass sign that read Tumbleweed Productions. I went in. The reception area was lined with movie posters. The furniture was blond modern and looked very uncomfortable. At the reception desk was a tanned young woman in a lavender pantsuit. Her dark hair was long and straight. There was a dandy silver streak in the front. She wore large, round glasses with gold frames. Her long manicured nails were painted to match her pantsuit, and she wore an ornate sapphire- and-gold ring on the index finger of her right hand. The nameplate on the desk said Vicki.
'May I help you?' she said.
I gave her my card. It was a nice, subdued card. Susan had persuaded me not to use one with the picture of me holding a knife in my teeth.
'I'd like to see Mark Ratliff, please.'
Vicki studied my card for a moment.
'Do you have an appointment with Mr. Ratliff?' she said.
'I'm ashamed to say I don't.'
I smiled at Vicki even more forcefully than I had at Bebe, though not the A smile. The A smile was too dangerous. Women sometimes began to loosen their clothing when I gave them the A smile.
'What was it concerning, Mr. Spenser?'
'Steve Buckman,' I said.
'The man who was…?'
I nodded encouragingly.
'I'll see if Mr. Ratliff is free,' she said, and went up a circular staircase in the back corner of the room and along a balcony and into an office.
While she was gone, I looked at the movie posters. All of them had Ratliff's name attached as producer. Some of them had stars I'd heard of. There was also an article clipped from Variety and framed, in which Ratliff was referred to as 'cult film master Mark Ratliff,' which, I think, meant that his films didn't make money. I was still looking at the posters and listening to the white noise of the air-conditioning when Vicki came back with good news.
'Mr. Ratliff will see you,' she said as if she were announcing It's a boy!
'How nice,' I said.
'Top of the stairs, turn right,' she said.
She smiled at me as if we were co-conspirators. I smiled back. Pals. One of my best friends in Potshot. I went up the stairs.
Mark Ratliff was sitting behind a huge, handcarved, Mexican-looking desk. He had on a light blue satin sweatsuit. He wore small gold-rimmed glasses low on his nose. His hair was white blond and brighter than Bebe's. He was very dark, and the light coming in through the window behind him illuminated the contrast between his dark skin and his pale hair. He stood when I came in and looked at me over the glasses.
'Hi,' he said. 'Mark Ratliff.'
The introduction was superfluous. I obviously knew who he was. But I didn't make a fuss about it. I said hello and sat down.
'So,' he said. 'Poor Stevie.'
'You close to him?' I said.
'My best friend,' Ratliff said.
