Eureka

CHAPTER 25

The Chevy was parked by the docks where we had left it. I drove around to the diner but Ski was nowhere to be seen, so I cruised down to the Pacific National.

Marsha Whittaker was a pleasant woman in her early thirties, her blond hair cut in a short bob that emphasized a round face and wide hazel eyes. She was dressed in a pale green sleeveless pinafore. I showed her my badge and mentioned that Mr. Gorman had probably told her about me.

“Oh yes,” she said. “You’re the gentleman interested in the cashier’s checks.”

“Yes, the ones made out to Verna Hicks.”

“Well,” she said, “I really can’t tell you much. My predecessor, Miss Hamilton, died two years ago. I only remember three of them. One was March of this year and the other two were last year.”

“Do you remember who purchased them?”

“I remember two of them. They were both purchased by young women. Very nicely dressed for San Pietro, that’s how come I remember them. The first one, that would have been March 1940, was very pretty. She was wearing a two-piece suit. Light-colored, I think. Maybe beige. She came in, handed me an envelope, and said ‘Will you please take care of this.’ There were five one-hundred-dollar bills and a note to make the check out to Verna Hicks. After I made it out, she put it in a business envelope that was already stamped and addressed, said ‘Thanks,’ and left.”

“Anything else you can remember?”

She hesitated for a minute, fell into deep thought again, then said, “No, I’m sorry.”

“That’s very good,” I said.

“Well, you know, she was… different.”

“How about the other one?”

“I remember her a little better, that was only a couple of months ago. She was small like the other girl but very… uh…”

“Voluptuous?” I tried.

“Thank you,” she said, blushing again. “I think she was probably staying at the Breakers.”

“Why do you say that?”

“She just looked like a tourist, the way she dressed and all, had a very heavy tan so I figured she’d probably been down on the beach. She was very friendly, you know, she smiled the whole time, but she didn’t say anything but ‘Please’ when she handed me the envelope and ‘Thanks’ when I was finished. Oh, and she was wearing sunglasses… and she did have a kind of accent, a foreign accent it sounded like. But she didn’t say enough to really tell. And the sunglasses she was wearing had white frames with little red hearts where the earpieces connect to the glasses. And she was wearing mascara. She really didn’t need mascara, she was quite striking. She did the same thing as the other girl. Gave me the envelope and after I made out the check she put it in an addressed envelope. She walked very straight, like a model.”

“Did you ever see either of them again?”

She shook her head. “Sorry I can’t be more helpful.”

“You’ve been a great deal of help. Thank you very much, Miss Whittaker.”

“Welcome,” she said, and I got up and left.

A Mrs. Higarty at the little Scotsman’s bank added a new dimension. She remembered that one of the checks had been purchased by an Oriental gentleman in workman’s clothes, who had presented her with five hundred dollars and a note to make the check out to Verna Hicks. He had simply nodded when she gave it to him. He, too, had a self-addressed envelope into which he deposited the check as he left. Her office was near the front of the bank and he walked away toward the post office.

I decided it was time to head up the Hill.

I drove around North End Park and past the guard at the entrance to the Hill, hoping he would be on a break, but no such luck. I could see his silhouette through the guardhouse window. There was no way I was going to get by him so I drove to the end of the street, took a left down a tree-lined avenue, and did a double-back to see if I was being followed. The street was empty. I drove around the curvy road until I reached the bottom of Cliffside Road. I sat there for a full five minutes trying to erase that trip down the steep, crumbling road from my mind. Then I got out, moved the sawhorse out of the way, pulled into the road, and put the sawhorse back.

I stayed in first gear and crept up the narrow strip. Rocks and dirt spat from under my rear wheels. I didn’t look sideways at the beautiful view or left to the sheer wall a foot away; my gaze was frozen on the piddling excuse for a road. As I swung slowly around a curve, I saw, maybe ten feet ahead of me, a washout. An eroded arc in the road the size of half a hubcap faced me. I stopped and stared at it, hoping for a miracle. Hoping it would go away. I decided to chance it. There was no way I was going to back down to the bottom of the cliff.

I was two feet from the bite out of the road when I stopped the second time. I set the hand brake and leaned out, judging that the road at that point was a foot narrower. If I hugged the cliff it gave me a one-foot clearance. I released the brake and crawled up to the hole. As I started past it, I felt the car tremble. As the back wheels passed the defective spot, the car began to lurch. My mouth went dry. My throat closed. I turned the wheel inward and stepped on the gas.

The Chevy jumped ahead. Another chunk of the road fell away and dropped down to the ocean. The car sideswiped the cliff with a grinding squeal. I fought it under control and slowed down until I was barely moving. Sweat streaked down my cheeks. I gentled the gas pedal and went on. The car kept spitting debris, occasionally fishtailing slightly. I got to the top without further incident.

I moved the sawhorse, drove through, and put it back. I needed a cigarette. I drove up the road until I could see the gate to Grand View, stopped, and rolled one. My heart was still doing triple time. I counted to twenty as slowly as I could and brought my pulse closer to normal. I finished one butt, rolled another, and as I finished it a grocery truck pulled up to the gate. The driver got out and swung one half of the gate open and drove through. He left it open, so I cranked up and followed him, drove down the long driveway, and pulled around into the parking lot south of the big house.

I checked the car. The side of Louie’s cream puff was going to need some work and the car would need a new paint job.

The wind coming up from the sea rattled the high hedge that bordered the side facing the cliffs. I walked down to the house. On the south side was another hedge, which hid a side door.

Nobody took a shot at me so I went to the front door and rang the bell. Somewhere inside I heard chimes playing the opening bars of “Anything Goes.” I waited and rang again. Nothing.

I stepped back from the door and checked the house. There were no sounds of life. The place was like a sleeping cat. Then the silence was broken by a girl giggling on the north side of the place. I followed the laughter around the corner. A row of rose bushes flanked the north side of the house, the grass was manicured, several palm trees provided pools of shade. On the back side of the house, at the bottom of a low terrace, was an Olympic-size pool with several cabanas on the far side. Tables with gaily colored umbrellas were scattered here and there, and striped canvas beach chairs were lined up facing the sun.

Two of them were occupied.

I strolled down toward them. Two women were sunning themselves on the beach chairs by the pool, whispering to each other and snickering like high-school girls. One was tallish, with a pouty mouth, deep-set eyes, and auburn hair that matched her tan. She was wearing a pair of dark blue cotton shorts. Nothing else. The other one, shorter, slimmer, with perfect breasts, a mischievous grin, and jet-black hair, was wearing a nice tan, period.

The naked girl, who looked to be around nineteen or twenty, spotted me first. She sat up, crossed her legs Indian-style, and flashed a genuine smile. The other one’s grin seemed more mechanical. Neither of them bothered to cover up.

“Aren’t you cute,” Naked One said without losing the smile. “Are you my five o’clock? If you are, you’re extremely early.”

“Now, do I look like your five o’clock?” I said, grinning back.

“I don’t know,” she said coquettishly, working her eyes overtime. “He’s new. I never know; maybe you’re a movie actor in disguise.” The whole time she was showing me all of her assets.

“Do the seagulls ever bother you?” I asked.

Naked One giggled.

“My name’s Zeke Bannon,” I said, offering her my hand.

“Zeke?” the other one said. “What kinda name is Zeke?”

“Where are your manners, Emerald?” Naked One said. Then added, “Emerald’s new. She hasn’t finished the course yet.”

“Is this a school?”

Naked One lowered her chin a notch and looked up at me.

“Miss Delilah’s finishing school,” she said. She leaned back on her elbows and said, “If you’re not my five o’clock, I’ve got at least two hours free. Maybe I could give you a lesson or two.”

“I’ll just bet you could.”

A voice from high over my shoulder said sternly, “Jade, you two put something on. This isn’t a cattle show.”

Both girls scrambled for cover. I turned around and looked up. The woman on the second-floor balcony had to be Delilah O’Dell. She was dressed in a long yellow silk robe with a pale pink striped sash, and yellow slippers with large fluffy balls on the top. And a hat. A pink feathery thing, with one feather arching down behind her ear and over her shoulder. She had flaming red hair and a rather full face with suspicious eyes. She could have been anything from thirty-five to fifty. She had a monumental figure, not voluptuous, just right, with a waist a wasp would weep for. Not beautiful, she didn’t need to be; she was a package and knew it.

“Just make yourself at home, why don’t you,” she snapped.

“I rang the bell several times.”

“Maybe I was out.”

“You weren’t.”

“Maybe I wanted you to think I was. Most people would have come back later.”

“You’re Delilah O’Dell,” I said.

“Really? Do I owe you anything for that information?”

I took out my badge and held it up so it winked in the sunlight.

“I’m a cop.”

It neither surprised nor flustered her; nothing short of an earthquake would.

“I don’t give a damn if you’re King George,” she said. “This is a private club and I don’t remember inviting you in.”

“I took a chance I’d catch you home.”

“Did you now? Let me try and guess. You’re Bannon.”

“Word travels fast in San Pietro.”

“Out of all mouths and into my ears. What are you doing up here?”

“I made a wrong turn.”

“You sure did. Come around to the door.” She vanished into the house.

I walked back to the front door, and a middle-aged colored man with graying hair and a build like King Kong opened it. He took my hat and nodded toward the stairs. I followed his instructions. I don’t know what he did with my hat.

There was a living room to the right of the door as I entered, a large sitting room to the left, a door at the far end of the sitting room, and another door under the stairs, which circled up to a small mezzanine. It was fashionably furnished and in good taste. I went up to the top of the stairs. A hallway led off to my left and a door was to the right. I turned around and surveyed the downstairs sitting room. A moment later Delilah O’Dell came out of the door.

“Enjoying more of the view?” she asked.

“So that’s where the Grand View shoot-out occurred,” I said, nodding to the large room. “And you and Culhane were the only two who walked away from it.”

“It wasn’t the Battle of Gettysburg,” she answered tartly. “Keep it in perspective. Come in here.”

“Your man took my hat,” I said.

“You’ll get your damn hat back. Occasionally we have a guest who forgets his manners and wears his hat inside. This way we don’t embarrass anyone.”

“I should think at five hundred smackers a pop you wouldn’t care.”

“This is a classy place, Bannon, it isn’t Steubenville, Ohio,” she said, assuming I knew that Steubenville was reputed to be the whorehouse capital of the world.

Her living room was done in yellow and pale green. Chaise, sofa, three chairs you could sink in and disappear, white coffee tables. The lamps were Tiffany and overhead was a magnificent crystal chandelier that filled in the shadows in the room. A well-stocked wet bar in one corner. Billie Holiday was singing “I Get Along Without You Very Well” on the console.

I looked at the feather draped across her shoulder.

“Do you wear that hat to bed?” I asked.

“I don’t wear anything to bed,” she said. “How about you?”

“Silk pajama bottoms.”

“You aren’t the type.”

“I live alone. I don’t have company that often so I dress for comfort.”

“You must not be trying very hard,” she said, walking to the bar.

“To do what?”

“Have company. John Jameson alright?”

“Beautiful. One cube of ice, please.”

She chuckled as she fixed the drinks.

“What’s funny?” I asked.

“Two of a kind,” she said half-aloud, shaking her head. She opened an ebony humidor, took out two thin cigars, and squeezed them between thumb and forefinger. Satisfied they were fresh, she snipped the ends off with a small scissor. She lit one, twirling it in the flame like an expert, and brought the drink and cigar over to me.

“Cuban,” she said, nodding to the cigar. “I have a friend that brings them to me once a month. Why don’t you give your legs a rest.”

I sank into one of the big chairs. It was like sitting on a cloud.

“This is a great cigar,” I said. “Of course, most of the cigars I’ve smoked cost a nickel and had ‘It’s a boy’ printed on the wrapper.”

She lit her own cigar.

“You do that with real finesse,” I said. “Did your tricks come with the house?”

“I learned my tricks-as you call them-from a very experienced lady in Paris. I was her apt pupil for three years, starting when I was eighteen.”

She looked me over with an experienced eye. “You shouldn’t have any trouble finding company. Great eyes, nice nose, good strong jawline. Nice straight teeth. Trim. You could use a few hours in the sun. And not too tall. That’s good. Anything over six feet I find intimidating.”

“Who’re you kidding? Nothing intimidates you.”

“How would you know?”

“It’s a measured guess. Is this how you size up your young ladies?”

“I’m not too concerned about height where the ladies are concerned,” she said, sitting down on the chaise. “Some men like amazons, some like midgets.”

“No kidding. I’ve never met a lady midget.”

“Would you like to?”

“I can’t afford it. A drink in this place would bankrupt me.”

“Maybe a free sample, then. But I get to watch.”

“Is that your monkey? Watching?”

“More like an audition.”

“I already have a job,” I said with a laugh.

“Not like the job I have in mind.”

“I’m sure.”

“Are you any good at it?”

“My job?”

“Yes, your job.”

“Not bad.”

“Brodie says you’re a pit bull. Are you a pit bull… What’s your first name?”

“Sergeant.”

“Cute,” she said sarcastically. “Is this where you go into your official act? Where’s the blackjack?”

“We stopped using them, they leave bruises,” I laughed. “My name’s Zeke. And I assume Brodie told you to go mum on me.”

“Brodie doesn’t tell me what to do; I figure things out for myself. I think you’re chasing some half-baked idea and you think if you talk to enough people, somebody’s bound to tell you a lie you can hang your hat on.”

“I suppose you could look at it that way.”

She shook her head slowly. “Well, at least you’re honest about it, Sergeant,” she said with a little spit in her tone.

“Why don’t you call me Zeke.”

“I don’t think we’re going to get that chummy.”

“Really? I heard you have a thing for cops.”

“I have a thing for men.”

“Ow… got a thing for acid, too.”

“You don’t chip easily, do you?”

“You’re pretty good, but not that good.”

“I’m just warming up.”

“I won’t be around for the finale.”

“Really?”

“This won’t take that long. What do your young ladies do for kicks?” I asked, making it sound as casual as possible. “San Pietro isn’t exactly the Lido.”

“They’re driven into Santa Barbara or Los Angeles when they want to have fun. Sometimes they sneak into town for a movie.”

“Do they do well? I mean, do they make a nice living?”

“Is this going to be twenty questions?”

“Curiosity.”

“Jade, the naked sun goddess, is studying biology at U.C.L.A. She only works summers and holidays. So far, she’s put herself through three years of college, makes straight A’s, and will have a nice little nest egg when she graduates. That answer your question?”

“I was wondering where they bank,” I said, and tried to blow a smoke ring, which fell apart as it left my lips. She blew three perfect ones and stared hard at me as they rose toward the chandelier.

“Do you shill for a bank on the side?” she asked after a minute crept by.

“I’m sure you know about the five hundred a month the woman Verna Hicks Wilensky was getting. I just talked to the notary at one of the banks. She described two of the buyers as five-three or five-four, a hundred and ten pounds, sexy, very fancily dressed for San Pietro. Pleasant, friendly, self-assured. The description could fit either of the naked goddesses down by the pool. And probably all the rest of the gals in your sorority.”

“Or any other good-looking girl five-three or five-four.”

“The descriptions of the buyers all follow the same line. Pretty, far too well dressed for your average San Pietro girl, in their early twenties. Well spoken, good manners, friendly but not overly so…”

“What are you building?”

“As you told me, your girls sneak off to Eureka for an occasional movie but don’t spend time down there.”

“It’s called San Pietro. Eureka is history.”

“Not from where I’m standing. Some things don’t wash off.”

“And you’re different? Your badge makes you any better?”

I thought about that for a moment or two.

“Maybe you’re right, Delilah. Maybe it’s the same gutter no matter how you dress it up.”

“Maybe you better sashay out of here.”

“I’m not through yet. We were talking about your dollhouse. The girls wouldn’t be recognized down in the village. They don’t give their names, they hand the notary an envelope with five Ben Franklins in it and the name of the payee, get the check, put it in an addressed, stamped envelope, and get lost. I’d like to talk to some of the girls.”

“Sure. Just as soon as I fall over dead on the floor.”

“I could get pushy.”

“You could lose that pretty smile of yours.”

“We could do this the hard way, Delilah.”

“ My first name is Miss,” she said harshly. “And you’re up here chasing your own tail. Trying to pin something on me or Culhane or somebody else up here. Let me show you something.”

She led me across the room and pointed to a small photograph mounted on the wall. It was a shot of Brodie and his crew, somewhere in France. The remnants of a town formed the background and they were up to their ankles in mud. Below the photograph, mounted on black velvet, were a Purple Heart and a Silver Star. She stared at Culhane’s figure as though transfixed.

“Why did you leave, Brodie?”

He shrugged. “To see the world.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You want to know the truth? I was running away from what I just came back to.”

She smiled ruefully. “You were sweet on Isabel, Ben was sweet on Isabel, and Isabel was sweet on both of you. Me? I was sweet on you and I couldn’t make it to first base.”

“Hell, we were just kids, Del.”

“Doesn’t make it hurt any the less.”

“We were all good friends. Still are, I should hope.”

“Nothing could ever change that, Brodie.”

She went to the record changer and put on an up-tempo jazz record, “Aunt Hagar’s Children Blues,” and started to dance. Brodie had seen girls in Paris dancing like that, loose, legs flying, swinging to the rhythm of the music.

“C’mon, I’ll teach you to do the Charleston.”

“Can I do it on one leg?” he asked with a smile.

She stopped and lifted the needle off the turntable.

“I’m sorry…”

“Hey, it’s nothing. In another month I’ll be good as new. Still a little gimpy, that’s all.”

She sat down near him.

“Here’s to us,” she said, holding up her glass. When they tapped them, the fine glassware pinged like tiny bells.

“To us,” he echoed. “A month from now you can teach me to dance. Give me an excuse to come by.”

“You’ll never need an excuse, Brodie. Just show up. I’ll give you the key.”

Without looking at me, she said, “Do you know about these men?”

“I’ve met most of them,” I said. “Look, I’m not up here to give anybody grief, particularly a bunch of war heroes. I’m here because I’ve got a job to do and it involves murder and…”

“Go back to L.A. You think anybody up here will give you a nickel’s worth of news? There’s not a man in that picture wouldn’t lie, kill, or die for Culhane. And you can include me in the club.”

“I didn’t say anything specific about Culhane.”

“I think you’re dancing with the idea.”

“I think some of your girls have information that can help me. You want to do it the hard way?”

“Oh? And how would that work?”

“The scenario would go something like this: I send the black wagon up here from L.A. I come in with a fistful of warrants, and we haul a dozen of your ladies down to the city and go in the little room with the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling and get real serious. All we want to know is where they got the bucks to buy some cashier’s checks.”

“You’d have to wade through a couple of lawyers who make more money while they’re taking a leak than you do in a year.”

“I’ve done rounds with the best. Lawyers don’t rattle me, although being in the same room with them usually gives me a rash.”

“You’re an arrogant son of a bitch.”

“I’ve been called a lot worse.”

“I’m sure you have,” she said, standing up. “Well, that’s what you’re going to have to do, so you may as well trot on home and get your warrants.”

“I think you’ve told me enough already.”

“Don’t bang your head on the wall, Sergeant. A couple of dozen very well heeled, very well connected gentlemen come through here every week. Any one of them could have slipped one of the girls some Ben Franklins and asked her to do that little chore. The girls don’t know any of them by name.”

“Then why are you getting wrinkles in your corset?”

“It’s bad for business.”

“So’s murder.”

“I think you should finish your drink and toddle along. You can take the cigar with you.”

She walked across the room and opened the door.

“Swell,” I said. “And I was hoping we’d get along.”

“Save up your money for about ten years and come back; you’ll find out how pleasant I can be,” she answered.

“So long, Delilah,” I said. “Thanks for the drink and the cigar.”

The big colored guy was waiting for me at the front door with my hat.

“Good day, sir,” he said.

“It could have been better,” I told him.

I walked back toward the parking lot. I was guessing that the discreet side door hidden behind the hedgerow probably led to a private room for the locals.

Or maybe it was where the milkman made his morning delivery.