practical, I think I have to consider this: that Verna Hicks Wilensky was born that day in 1924. Whoever she was before that is just so much history and very possibly a waste of my time.”
“You mean you may just forget the whole thing?”
“Not exactly, but if I draw a deuce then I’ll have to let the state take it all.”
“How about Rosebud?”
“Well, one thing’s for sure. It’s one part of her estate the boys will definitely not be interested in.”
“Will you keep him?”
“It’s against my lease.”
“Somehow I don’t think that worries you too much.”
“Thanks,” I said and smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“As it was meant.”
“There’s one other thing,” I said, taking out one of my business cards. “If the state boys should show up, give me a call, will you? I’m racing the clock on this and I’d like to know when the dogs are at my heels.”
“I think what you’re doing is quite noble,” she said.
I let that pass by.
“One other thing. If it’s just one of them that shows up, be sure to check his ID. Try to remember the name and buzzer number, it’ll be in the upper-right-hand corner. They’re supposed to travel in pairs, it’s a rule. A house, a car, and a hundred grand adds up to a lot. In my business, people get killed for a lot less. One of them just might let greed outrun his brain.”
I wrote my home number across the top of my card. I don’t know why. Well, yes, I do. I was dreaming.
She looked at the card and snapped it with a fingernail. Then she abruptly changed the subject.
“Just out of curiosity, what does a cop do for fun? Besides adopt stray dogs.”
“Go to the movies. Grab a good meal somewhere. Take a dip in the ocean occasionally. How about you, besides tennis?”
“I like to dance,” she said.
“No kidding. Jitterbug?” It was a joke. I couldn’t imagine her swinging around and kicking up a storm on a dance floor.
“Of course. Do you dance?”
I leaned across the desk toward her and said, “Promise you’ll never tell anyone what I’m about to say?”
She crossed her heart with a finger.
“I once won a loving cup at the Saturday-night jitterbug contest at the Palladium. To Benny Goodman’s ‘Don’t Be That Way.’ Me and Julie Cluett. We also got twenty bucks.”
“Were you in high school?”
I shook my head. “Four years ago. I was scared to death one of the boys on the force would find out. Now when I go, I tell the guys I’m doing security.”
“How often do you go?”
“Whenever there’s a big band. I don’t dance much, I just stand up around the bandstand with everybody else and listen. He’s going to be there next week, you know.”
“Who?”
“Tommy Dorsey.”
“At the Palladium?”
“Yep, with Buddy Rich, Sinatra, the Pied Pipers, the whole gang.”
“I’ve never been to the Palladium,” she said.
It sounded like a pick-up line but I knew better.
“It gets very hot and crowded.”
“Are you going?”
I smiled. “I’m doing security that night.”
She laughed again. Then she paused and asked, “Do you ever need an assistant?”
And there it was. One thing she wasn’t, was shy. A lady whose cigarettes cost more than my car was pitching me. I wondered how long it would take for the novelty of that to wear thin.
“Look,” I said, “let’s put it on the table. I wouldn’t know a dish of caviar from a bowl of Wheaties.”
“So? I’ve never met anybody who was dancing for the piper. What’s that got to do with anything?”
I couldn’t think of an answer for that so I just stared into those gray eyes.
“Well, if you do decide you need an assistant, my number’s Vandike 2578. I’ll write it down for you, it’s not in the book.”
“Vandike 2578. I remember things like that.”
“How about that? A cop who loves dogs and dancing and remembers phone numbers.”
I took out the makings.
“Want to try one of mine before I leave?” I asked her.
“I… yes, why not?”
I rolled two, fanned them dry, and gave her one. She lit hers with her gold Dunhill, I lit mine with my Zippo.
Obviously a match made in heaven.
CHAPTER 6
I met Ski at a restaurant on La Cienega called the French Kettle, which was a high-sounding name for a lunchtime hangout for reporters, politicians, and cops. The prices went up for the dinner trade. The place was owned by an ex-prizefighter named Andre DeCourt, who was once a very promising middleweight. He was one of those good-looking Frenchmen with dark shiny hair, a straight nose, and green eyes. The story goes that Andre worked his way up the rankings to a match with a muscle-bound hammer named Ray Rowles, who was next in line for a title shot. Andre was the favorite and the odds were up to about fifteen to one. Andre decided it was time to quit before he started looking like Slapsie Maxie Rosenbloom, who in turn looked like a bus had run into him, so he took all his savings, laid it off on Rowles, beat him to a pulp for seven rounds, and then lay down and took a nap. He used the winnings to open the restaurant, then took a rematch with Rowles, played with him for two rounds, and knocked him all the way to Madagascar in the third. Then he retired for good.
It was one of those high-ceilinged, wood-and-brass eateries that looked more like a cattle baron from Denver owned it than an Americanized Frenchman. There were booths around the perimeter and cubicles filled in the middle of the room. They all had high, etched-glass partitions, which looked fancy and expensive but were there mainly for privacy. When newsmen and politicians talk, they want privacy. Cops don’t really care, they don’t have anything to say. The place opened at 7:00 a.m. and closed at 11:00 p.m. In the morning they served eggs Benedict to die for, and the sandwich menu at lunch was two pages long. I couldn’t afford to eat there at dinner. If I wanted to spend that much money for a meal I’d go to Chasen’s. I had never been there either.
Andre was always there, seated in a small booth for two in the front of the place near the cash register. He always wore a tuxedo. At seven in the morning he was in a tuxedo. He changed the shirt three times a day and he wore a very subtle cologne that made you forget he once earned his living with sweat and a right uppercut. He also carried a tab for the breakfast and lunch trade, which was a nervy thing to do-newsmen, politicians, and cops not being known for their credit ratings. The newsies and dicks because they didn’t make much money, and the politicians because they were on the take from the start and who’s going to sue the mayor or a city councilman for stiffing a check or two?
He got up when I came in and gave me a fifty-dollar smile.
“Zee,” he said, “ Bonjour. Ski is here already. Over by the window in the corner.” He led me over there, handed me a leather-covered menu the size of the Rand McNally World Atlas, and retreated to his post.
Ski was devouring a large piece of Boston cream pie, which was his idea of an hors d’oeuvre.
“Why do you always eat your lunch backward?” I said.
“I don’t like to start with a bowl of weeds with a tomato sitting in the middle of it.”
The waiter came by and I ordered a corned beef on rye and a Coke.
