Seattle Noir

force.

The word would spread. Rogue cop.

Gus threw a couple bills down beside his glass and left the bar. He started walking, not caring where. He had a headache that was the granddaddy of all headaches, knocking the sides of his skull and traveling down to his shoulders. Suddenly, Gus felt too weary to move, his feet, dead weights. He couldn’t lift them. He shuffled into a doorway and leaned against the shop window.

Gus thought of Sweet Sue… and Jenny, and he wanted to cry. But couldn’t do that. The well had dried up a long time ago. He muttered, “Gus Maloney, you’ve screwed up your life. Big time.”

He nodded in agreement with himself. Then, after a long while, he slowly pulled himself together and swiped his eyes with his hand.

There’s no going back.

But Gus did change direction.

He headed for the hospital and Sweet Sue. Gus knew what he had to do. After he checked on Sweet Sue, he’d pack up and get out of town, head south, maybe just to Tacoma. Lay low. But be close enough that he could check on Sweet Sue. Soon as the old geezer was well, he’d let him know that he wanted his aide-de-homeless-camp with him again.

PART III.LOVE IS A FOUR - LETTER WORD

TILL DEATH DO US…BY CURT COLBERT

Belltown

I hate domestic cases. As long as I’ve been a private eye, they’ve been as unpredictable as counting on a sunny day here in Seattle. Harry Truman upsetting Dewey in last year’s election was no big surprise at all compared to domestic cases. They can ruin your day faster than losing a bundle on the wrong nag or saying “I do” to the wrong dame.

So why did I do it? Take the Dorothy Demar/Harold Sikes case, I mean. I’ve been asking my bottle of Cutty Sark that question ever since it was full and I still don’t have a good answer. It has been getting a little easier to ask the question, though. Decent Scotch doesn’t do a thing to solve the eternal mystery of sin and sordidness, but it does make it slightly easier to swallow.

Dorothy Demar entered my office without knocking while my girl Friday, Miss Jenkins, was out having her usual at the Woolworth’s lunch counter. At least Miss Jenkins could afford to go out to lunch. Me, I was dining on yesterday’s liverwurst slapped between two hunks of last week’s bread. I had some slight money troubles. It was payday and I’d sucked my bank account dry forking over my girl Friday’s salary. Worse, I’d blown the last C-note I had in reserve for the down payment on the fancy-schmancy two-way radios that I’d had my sights set on for the better part of a year. Cops had them, why not me? Yeah, well, now I had my two-way radios, but my name was going to be mud at Queen City Electronics without the dough for the balance of the account, which, coincidentally, just happened to be due today. Nothing I hated worse than a welcher-and that was going to be me, I was thinking, when Dorothy Demar sashayed in.

“Jake Rossiter?”

Husky voice for a female. More like a command than a question.

“Who’s asking?”

I glanced up from my desk, startled that the owner of the whiskey voice turned out to be such a hot number.

“Dorothy.”

The way she peeled off her long white gloves reminded me of a woman slowly taking off her nylon stockings. This dame just dripped with sultry allure. Got me excited-got me nervous-didn’t know which emotion to act on.

So, there I sat-and there she stood-tall, slim, busty, early thirties at most, with a blond Veronica Lake hairdo over high cheekbones, perfect skin, and a button nose, her powder-blue, two-piece silk ensemble so snug that I had to catch my breath.

“Dorothy Demar,” she said, adding a last name, her eyes a deeper blue than the last swimming pool I dove into.

I noticed she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. I drew on all my years as a professional to compose myself.

“Glad to meet you. Have a seat. What can I do for you?”

“I want to hire you.” Curvier than ten miles of bad road, she slid into the green wingback chair across from me.

“I figured you weren’t collecting for the Milk Fund.” I pushed the liverwurst out of my way and replaced it with my stenographic notepad. “I might be able to squeeze in a new client. Shoot,” I told her, uncapping my fountain pen. “What’s the scoop?”

“I need you to keep an eye on me.”

“From what I’ve seen so far, that won’t be difficult.”

She smiled for the first time, her pearly whites glistening between her full red lips.

“Just for the record, though,” I continued, “why do you need me to keep an eye on you?”

“I think I’m in danger, Mr. Rossiter,” she said, a little quaver in her otherwise strong voice.

“Why’s that?”

“Does it matter?” she snapped. “I want to hire you! Isn’t that enough?”

I studied her for a moment, a bit put off by her sudden fire. “Not quite.”

“I think I’m in danger,” she repeated.

“Look, let’s try this again,” I told her, taking out a Philip Morris and lighting up. “Maybe you’re new to this sort of thing, but I’m not really big on mysteries. I like my cases nice and straightforward. And my answers plain.”

Dorothy jumped to her feet. “Maybe I’ve come to the wrong man.”

I stayed seated. “Maybe you have,” I said, thinking about how fast lust can go wrong.

She reached into the small ivory clutch that she carried, and laid four fat C-notes face up on my desk. Ben Franklin never looked more handsome. “Is that enough to make you the right man?”

“Well, now…” I pulled the bills toward me. “I could maybe handle a certain amount of suspense for this kind of dough.”

“Thought so.” Looking smug, she sat back down and took a gold-filigreed cigarette case out of her clutch. Tamping one of her smokes against it, she said, “Now maybe you’ll start doing like you’re told.”

“Could be.” I offered her a light. “But you haven’t told me anything yet. No, strike that, you’ve spilled loads just by the way you’ve been acting. Let’s see… you’re rich; undoubtedly spoiled rotten as a child; used to getting your own way and you tend to throw tantrums when you don’t. How am I doing so far?”

“Good as a gypsy.” She took a deep drag off her cigarette and gave me a wry look. “I can tell a few things about you too. Let’s see… you’re not rich, otherwise you wouldn’t have this crummy office in the Regrade; you probably had to do for yourself as a child; you’re used to making your own way in this world and you tend to be cynical and sarcastic when things don’t go like you think they should. How am I doing so far?”

“Good as a gypsy.”

“There’s one other thing.”

“What’s that, pray tell?”

“You seem to be one of those people who act just the way they look, Mr. Rossiter. Smart but tough. Exactly the type of man I need to help me.”

This dame was smart herself. And definitely drop-dead gorgeous. Volatile, potentially explosive mix. Whether it