“Well I’d better get going. Wouldn’t do for the law to find me here,” I said, walking back outside. “They wouldn’t like it if they thought I came straight to you instead of them. I might have saved them hours of work by identifying Flower.”
“Yes, yes,” he muttered absently.
I left him pacing disconsolately up and down as I drove away. Soon after I emerged on to the Beach Road another car came towards me. It was a powerful white Italian sports model, and the headlights were so bright I was momentarily dazzled. Slowing, I pulled over to the side of the road and watched my rear mirror. The newcomer swung into Somerset’s driveway and disappeared from view. I thought about going back to find out who it was, decided against it.
The lump on my head wasn’t contributing to the general gaiety, but I still had to make one more call before I hit the sack. Avoiding the center of town I headed out into the lightly wooded country on the far side. There was very little traffic around, and fifteen minutes I was on the quiet side road that led to Rose Suffolk’s. Soon after that I was turning into the big forecourt, where colored spotlights played on the wood beam manor-house imitation that was one of the best night spots for miles around.
My first stop was in the men’s room, where I washed up and tried to straighten my appearance. A wadded paper towel soaked in icy water made very good friends with my lump, and for a few blissful seconds the throbbing eased off. Then I was ready to make an appearance in public.
The bar was busy and I had to wait a while for service. All around me people seemed to be enjoying life. They were talking and laughing, taking an occasional sip. Here and there a young couple sat, perfectly content to be neither talking nor laughing, but simply looking at one another, which was enough in itself. Everybody in the whole wide world was with somebody else. Except me, naturally. My only company was a slowly returning throb in the head.
“It’s bad for a man to drink alone.”
I turned, and there was the proprietor in person, Rose Suffolk.
“Hallo Rose. Can I get you something?”
“Too early. I’ll come and sit with you though, smoke one of your cigarets.”
We threaded our way through, looking for a space to park. Several people spoke to her, and she had a word or a smile for each one. Finally I located a small table when the occupants were getting ready to leave. Another man tried to step in front of me but I used an elbow and he drew back, growling something about pushing people.
“That’s good.”
Rose settled back and relaxed. I made with the Old Favorites, and she inhaled luxuriously.
“That’s good, too. You know Mark, I haven’t been off my dogs since six-thirty. And there’s still another four hours before we fold.”
“Don’t kid me, Rose. You love it.”
I hadn’t seen her in months but she still looked good as ever. In show business you can meet a hundred people before you encounter a smart one. Rose Suffolk was one of those. Originally a torch singer, she realized one day that she’d got as far as she was going. Not that she was unsuccessful, far from it. She played what they call in the trade the saloon circuit. And that does not mean a succession of crummy bars. It means the best night spots in every major city, a week here, two weeks there. She had a reasonable voice, and a tremendous style for putting a number across. Gradually she built up a repertoire of point numbers, for which she was best known. She was well thought of by the public and show people alike, but suddenly she realized life was set. At twenty-four she was at the top of her particular tree. There was no reason to suppose she couldn’t go on exactly as she was for twenty more years, maybe longer. As she once put it to me, it dawned on her as she was doing the two a.m. spot at the Green Derby in Las Vegas. Looking at the people, and lapping up the applause she had a clear vision that one day she’d be going through the same routines for their children. And it did not appeal in the slightest. That was when she decided there was more to life than living in hotel rooms, even the best hotels, which they were. Earning top salary as she did, she began a saving campaign. She accepted all and any guest shots on television and radio, anything at all that helped to swell the bankroll. Then, when she was ready, she looked around for the right property. Rose was always a gal who knew exactly what she wanted and was content to wait until she found it.
“Aren’t you going to talk to me?” she said suddenly.
I realized my thoughts had been wandering.
“Sorry Rose, I was thinking. About you.”
“Oh, well,” she pouted, but considerably mollified. “What about me?”
“I was thinking about the old days, before you bought this place. Back then, there were only three girls for me. Ella, Peggy Lee and Rose Suffolk. Don’t you miss it?”
“Oh sure, sometimes. It was a lot of fun, and naturally I miss a lot of it. But I’m my own boss here. If I want time off, I just take it. I’m not looking for any handouts, and short of a general depression I never will be, maybe not even with one. I have regular hours, not the same hours as everyone else perhaps, but regular. I haven’t been in an airplane in months and when I eat, it isn’t a quick sandwich and coffee in some airport lounge or on a train. Do I look bad on it?”
I couldn’t have a better excuse
