Part 19 (1/2)
The cab dropped me within sight of a two-year-old Ford parked across the street from Bobbi's hotel. Gaylen's voice still lingered in my head, pleading. None of my reasons to refuse seemed very good now, but even after discarding them all, I was not going to do it. Something was bothering me; I wanted advice, or at least to have someone tell me I was right. Escott might be back in a day or two; I'd talk it over with him. Or maybe not.
Hands in pockets, I made myself small behind a telephone pole and tried to see the driver of the Ford. From this angle, he wasn't too visible. He was slouched down in the seat, it could have been either Braxton or Webber. They worked as a team; why was only one on watch? On the remote chance that there was a third member on their hunt, I copied the license-plate number in my notebook for Escott to check. The plates were local. They might have rented it, wanting something less conspicuous than the big Lincoln.
The Ford was parked in with a line of other cars. If Bobbi hadn't tipped me, I'd never have noticed it or the man inside. The rest of the street looked clean. No one was loitering in any doorways, it seemed safe enough to approach. I strolled along the sidewalk, breasted the open pa.s.senger window, leaned over, and said h.e.l.lo.
The man inside turned a slow, unfriendly eyeball on me. He wasn't Braxton or Webber and looked bored to death. I landed on my feet and asked if he had a light, hauling out my face-saving cigarettes.
He considered the request with indifference, then pawed around the car for some matches. It took some hunting before he found them; the seat was littered with sandwich wrappings, unidentifiable paperwork, crumpled cigarette packs, and smoked-out b.u.t.ts. I offered him one from my pack and he took it. ”Been here long?”
”What's it to you?” He lit his cigarette on the same match that fired mine, his long fingers s.h.i.+elding the flame from the faint night breeze. He was a good-looking specimen, with a straight nose, cleft chin, and curly blond hair. Up on a movie screen he might have stopped a few feminine hearts. I pegged him to be a college type, but he was too old and had seen enough to have a cynical cast to his expression.
”You're making the hotel d.i.c.k nervous.”
”I should if I'm doing his job for him. He send you or are you from Mrs. Blatski?”
”What's the difference?”
”He sent you then.” He blew smoke lazily out the window.
”What if I am from Mrs. Blatski?”
”No skin off my nose. She has a right to hire someone as long as they leave me alone-or are you the guy she's sleeping with?” He eyed me with a shade more interest.
”You a d.i.c.k?”
”Got it in one, bright eyes.”
I pushed away from the Ford in disgust. Not Braxton or any connection to him, just a keyhole peeper trying to get the goods on his client's wife. Three steps later a crazy thought occurred and I was back at the window again.
”Charles, is that you?”
He gave me an odd look and I deserved it. A second and more detailed check on his face was enough confirmation that he wasn't Escott got up in disguise. The eyes were the wrong color, brown instead of gray, and his ears were the wrong shape, flat on top, not arched.
”What's your problem?” he asked, squinting.
”Thought you were someone else.”
”Yeah? Who?”
”Eleanor Roosevelt. I was gonna ask for an autograph.”
”Hey, wait up.”
I waited up. He got out of the car slowly, stretching the kinks from his legs and back. He was average in height and build, but it wasn't padding that filled out the lines of his suit. He didn't look belligerent, so I wanted to see what he wanted. He came around to the front of the car without any wasted movement and rested his backside against the fender.
”Yeah?” I said.
”Nothing much, you just look familiar to me.”
”I got a common face.”
”Naw, really, you from around here?”
”Maybe. What's your game, anyway?”
”Minding other people's business.”
”That can be dangerous.”
”Nah. Like this job, nothing to it but following some old b.i.t.c.h around to see what kind of flies she attracts. She's filthy rich and all that dirt attracts plenty.”
I nodded. ”And you think I'm one of them?”
”It don't hurt to ask. Sometimes you can do a fella a good turn, keep him outta the courts, then maybe he feels like doing me a good turn.”
A shakedown artist to boot. Well, it's a big nasty world and you can meet all kinds if you stand still long enough. ”You got the wrong man this time, ace.”
”Malcolm,” he said, holding out a hand.
My manners weren't quite bad enough to refuse, so we shook briefly and unpleasantly. He had a business card palmed and pa.s.sed it on to me.
”Just in case you need a troubleshooter.” He smiled, tapped the brim of his hat, and went back around to the driver's side. ”You never know.” He slid behind the wheel, still smiling, his lips pressed together into a hard, dark line. He had dimples.
I barely smiled back in the same way, but without dimples, and took a walk.
Creeps make me nervous and I felt sorry for Mrs. Blatski, whoever she was.
Oozing through the back door, I found my way to the lobby, kept out of view of the front windows, and got Phil's attention by waving at the night clerk. He crossed over casually.
”How'd you get in? The back's locked.”
”Better check it, then. Any sign of Braxton?”
”He ain't in the car?”
”I had a look. It's some private d.i.c.k on a divorce case.”
”Then I ain't seen him.””I guess that's all right, as long as they leave Miss Smythe alone.”
”It doesn't mean they stopped lookin' for you, though.”
”Yeah, but I'm being careful.” We went to the back door, which I had unlocked once inside. Phil let me out and locked it again.
After five minutes of studying the street I tentatively decided that my Buick was un.o.bserved. I was back to feeling paranoid again and went as far as checking it for trip wires and sticks of dynamite. Bombs were an unlikely tool for Braxton, but then why take chances?
The car was okay and even started up smoothly. There was little time left to get to the broadcast, but the G.o.d of traffic signals was with me and I breezed through the streets as quickly as the other cars would allow. Bobbi had left instructions with the staff about me, and as soon as I was identified, a bra.s.s-b.u.t.toned usher gave me an aisle seat with the rest of the studio audience.
The room was smaller than I'd expected, roughly divided between audience and performers, with only slightly more s.p.a.ce given over to the latter. There was a gla.s.sed-in control booth to one side filled with too many people who didn't seem to be doing much of anything at the moment. Bobbi was on the stage, looking outwardly calm. She was seated with a half dozen other people on folding chairs, all of them dressed to the nines, which didn't make a whole lot of sense for a radio show.
Across from them a small band was tuning up, and in between, seated at a baby grand, was Marza Chevreaux flipping through some sheet music.