“We haven’t had dinner, you know.”
Somehow it was an accusation.
“I thought we’d just go over to the Polo Lounge,” I said. “Or maybe order room service.”
“Let’s go out.” Abruptly, she stood, smoothing her bolero slacks outfit. “I need to go out.”
So I took her to La Rue, a chic joint on the Strip owned by Billy Wilkerson, publisher of The Hollywood Reporter. Unlike the nearby Ciro’s and the Trocadero, La Rue was chiefly a restaurant, not a nightclub, and the mood was relaxed-no blaring big band, just a piano playing Cole Porter. The only celebrities I spotted were Rita Hayworth and Orson Welles, sharing one of the striped booths; weren’t they divorced? Hayworth looked angry and Welles, heavy-lidded, seemed half in the bag. I knew Welles, having met him in Chicago years before, but he didn’t recognize me, or anyway acknowledge me. I got over it. We moved along to our own cozy striped booth, where we ate, conversing little. Peg had lobster newberg, which she barely touched, and I had a lamb chop, just picking at the thing.
We were both preoccupied-I was thinking about that phone call to the Biltmore I was supposed to make, Beth’s hour deadline having nearly elapsed; and Peggy had as yet to elaborate on those three little words: “Can we talk?”
Finally, after our plates had been cleared and the crumbs brushed from the linen tablecloth and we’d both declined dessert and ordered coffee, I asked, “How did the audition go this morning?”
“It wasn’t an audition,” she said.
“I thought it was an audition.”
“It wasn’t. It was a doctor’s appointment.”
“Doctor’s… are you all right?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.”
I scooched around beside her in the booth, slipped an arm around her. “Peg, what’s wrong?”
“I was late.”
“Late?”
“You know… late?”
I couldn’t be hearing this.
“And I’m never late,” she went on, her tone as light as a Noel Coward play, and as ominous as an obituary, “so I made a doctor’s appointment… just to be safe, you know? I’m pregnant, all right.”
“Well,” I said thickly, “that’s… that’s wonderful.”
“Wonderful?” The violet eyes glared at me: are you insane? “You can’t be serious. This couldn’t come at a worse time.”
She didn’t know how right she was, but I said, “It’s a great time-we’re newlyweds and we’re going to be parents. That’s great. It’s the American dream.”
“It’s a nightmare. It doesn’t fit in with our plans at all!”
“Our plans?”
“Nate, I’m going to be in a movie next week. I have an agent. My dreams are all coming true.”
“Don’t you have any dreams that involve me, and starting a family?”
She sighed impatiently, glancing away. “Of course I do… just not right now.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“I think we should… consider… you know.”
“Consider what?”
“Must I say it?”
“… Getting rid of it?”
Now her manner turned businesslike. “Surely, with your connections, you know people that could… take care of this.”
My connections again.
“Peggy,” I said, scooching away a little, pawing the air, “no more discussion. You’re having this baby. We’re having this baby.”
She huffed, she puffed, she blew my house down: “I should have known you’d take that selfish attitude.”
Whatever happened to the good old days, when you knocked up a woman, she tried to talk you into getting married, and you tried to talk her into having an abortion instead?
“You’re my wife,” I said, “and I love you, and you’re going to be the mother of my… of our… child.”
“You’re impossible,” she said, and she began to cry, and when I tried to comfort her, she slapped at me and rushed off to the powder room. Other patrons glared at me, wondering what terrible thing I’d done to this poor girl.
I took the opportunity to use the pay phone to try the number at the Biltmore. I let it ring and ring and ring.
Finally a male voice answered. “This is a pay phone.”
“I know. Is there a pretty girl sitting there, waiting in the lobby? Dark hair, almost black? Real dish?”
“Yeah, I seen her, she was hangin’ around awhile. She blew, though.”
“Thanks.”
Shrugging, I hung up; what the hell-what had been her damn rush, anyway? Beth Short knew where to find me.
So I leaned against the wall outside the ladies’ powder room, nodding to Bogart and Bacall as they strolled by, heading to the bar; Bogart nodded back and Bacall bestowed a smile. Nice couple. Glad somebody was happily married.
Well, at least I could be sure of something: I might be one fertile son of a bitch, but none of the women in my life wanted to have my kid.
3
Flies were not alone in swarming around the milky-white cleaved cadaver in the weedy vacant lot on South Norton Avenue-within minutes of Bill Fowley abandoning me by driving off to make his phone call, cops and reporters and assorted rubberneckers were getting grisly glimpses.
It began slowly, with another radio patrol car pulling up, a uniformed sergeant who’d been cruising Slauson having heard the 390 call. Though he was older, and obviously experienced, the sarge whitened and shook his head and backed away from the body, mumbling, “Man oh man oh man.” Shortly thereafter a blue ’41 Ford with a press sticker on the windshield drew up, parked in the street, and a fortyish fireplug of a woman in a raincoat, her short red hair uncovered, hopped out and headed over, trailed by a photographer-a real one-loading a bulb into his Speed Graphic.
Round faced with pleasant features given an edge by her hard bright eyes and firm set jaw, Aggie Underwood might have been a schoolteacher; instead she was the first rival reporter to arrive at the scene. Sort of a rival, anyway: like Fowley, she worked for Hearst, just a different paper, the afternoon Herald Express.
Trouble was, Aggie knew me-we were friendly acquaintances, having met when I came to L.A. in late ’44 on the notorious Peete case; Louise Peete-currently sitting on death row-was scheduled to be the second woman in California history to be executed. Aggie was regarded by many as the best police beat reporter in L.A., with a tough-as-nails, aggressive reputation that I knew from personal experience was well deserved.
She didn’t notice me at first-I was standing off to one side-and when the younger uniformed officer, Jerry, stepped forward, holding out a traffic-cop palm, saying, “Just a minute, lady!” she brushed past him, speaking to the older cop, Mike, notepad and pencil at the ready.
“Remember me, Officer?” she said chirpily. “Underwood of the Express?” Still charging forward, she jerked a thumb back at her photographer, who was ambling up behind her. “Jack here took that swell picture of you that made page three last month-that school fire?”
“Miss Underwood, please stay back-”
“What have we got here?”
