“Going to your studio,” Scratch said. Betty eyed him. “I have some film for you to develop.”
Scratch reached over and placed his hand on Betty's knee. She put her hand on his. Betty smiled at Scratch and said: “OK.”
* * *
“Pretty lewd photos,” Scratch said, spreading out 20 glossy prints of women in various poses, some unclothed, touching themselves, others in lingerie or boudoir shots.
“They're just photographs to me,” Betty said. She was finishing up developing the 8mm film in her bathtub, the film from the camera that had been in the hatbox. “I've photographed worse things. I'm telling you, Allan. Seeing a woman laid out on the blacktop without her head and her car smashed in like an accordion is 10 times worse than seeing her legs spread open.”
“Not everyone agrees,” Scratch said. He glanced at the bottom picture again. A brown-haired young woman in a see-through negligée and black stockings was lying on her back, cupping her naked right breast, pursing her lips. It was Maggi Spiff. “You know her?”
Betty adjusted her glasses, squinted. She smiled. “You like her, huh?” Scratch shrugged, pleaded with her to answer. “It's OK that you like her… Yeah,” Betty chuckled. “She goes by Suzie Q. Dumb name, huh? She's very popular with buyers. Why?”
“She's actually Maggie Spiff.”
“What? You mean…”
“Yep. Oliver Spiff's daughter,” Scratch said.
Betty took a breath. “I didn't know, Allan. This guy met me in the Blue Room. We had a few drinks. He knew I was looking for girls to photograph. He said he had a guy, too. I never met the guy. He said he had three girls and a guy he tricks out, usually to rich businessmen. They'll do whatever they are asked to do. I told him I don't photograph anything the models are not comfortable with.”
“Who's the guy?”
“I don't know his name. Harry set us up.” Betty went on to describe the man. “He was short, portly, kind of muscled. He had a tattoo of a woman in dress sitting on an atom bomb. Kind of scary, intense – for a little guy.”
Scratch chuckled. “Rudy Gilmore.”
“You know him?” Betty asked.
“We've had a few run-ins,” Scratch said. A thought came him. “Betty?”
“Yes?”
“Where's the other hatbox? The one you left Horace Hammock's house with?”
“I don't know, Allan,” She sat on the toilet. “I was going to my car and a red Fury pulled up. This young man and woman were in the car. The man got out and showed me a .45. He said he wanted the hatbox, nothing else. Of course, I handed it over.”
“Did you look inside the hatbox?” Scratch asked.
“No,” Betty said. She laughed. “I thought there was money in it. That's why I left with it. I thought I could use it to help with my mother's hospital bills. She has cancer.” The thought of all those bills mounting up overwhelmed Betty. She had to focus. She wanted to help Scratch. “Why does everyone want that hatbox?”
“Two different camps with two different goals, Betty,” Scratch said. “Two different bosses pulling the strings.”
Some of the film started to come though. Betty tapped Scratch on the arm. She pointed to Images of three people becoming visible.
“Well,” Betty laughed. “Looky, looky at the dirty pictures.”
A woman was bent over on a canopy bed, her face buried between another woman's legs. A man was directly behind the first woman, entering her with his erect penis. The next 23 frames appeared after that, showing the man bucking hard and the second woman holding the first woman's bobbing head. The second woman looks at the camera, cups her right breast and smiles.
At that point, no other images came through. Betty drew Scratch's attention away from the negative. She kissed Scratch. He kissed her back, and she sat down on the toilet seat again. Scratch found himself on his knees, feeling the hard tile floor on his aching kneecaps. He kissed Betty's neck, moved to her collar bone, and finally to the naked right breast she'd just freed from her brassiere and blouse.
They would have done more but Scratch remembered two things he had not done yet. One: Go back to the Primrose and look at Gardner's room. The second thing was visit the offices of The Daily Message, the newspaper Horace Hammock owned.
“The film has to dry anyway,” Betty said, placing the long black loops across a wire rack invented for undergarments to dry on. “I'll come with you.”
Scratch hugged Betty from behind, caressed her breasts and kissed her left earlobe. Betty giggled.
18
Jerzy was hunched over his desk, reading the guest ledger. When he saw Scratch and Betty saunter through the lobby of the Primrose, he dropped his pen and straightened up as if an army sergeant had barked an order. He came from around the desk, and stared. Then he rushed to greet them.
“Mr Williams… uh… Scratch, my friend! How-how good to see you!” Jerzy's whole body shook, causing him to have a slight hiccup when he spoke. “Miss Klein… What brings you here?”
Scratch glanced at Betty.
“I took some family portraits and Christmas photos for him,” Betty said.
“You celebrate Christmas, Jerzy?”
“Of course,” Jerzy chuckled. “I'm an American now! I celebrate every holiday.”
“Oh, yeah,” Scratch looked at him incredulously. “Hey Jerzy, we're here to see the room.”
“Room?” Jerzy smiled.
“Yeah, the room,” Scratch repeated, smiling.
“You can check into 233. I believe that is free…”
“No, Jerzy,” Scratch said. “The room where…” Scratch lowered his voice as a woman walked by and a bellboy followed, struggling with her suitcases. “The room where Ray Gardner was killed?”
Jerzy's eyes slowly eased down to his shoes. He swallowed hard. “I'm sorry, Scratch. That room.” His eyes rose up again to meet Scratch's. “That room… is under renovations.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Jerzy?”
“I was told to…”
“It hasn't been long enough for the police to gather all the evidence they need,” Betty said.
“The sheriff know about this?”
“I-I don't know.” Jerzy crooked his finger for Betty and Scratch to follow him.
