Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 137, No. 1. Whole No. 833, January 2011

Harley Mazuk was born and raised in Cleveland, Ohio and has worked at a variety of jobs, including, for the past ten years, corporate communications. This is his first work of fiction and it would normally go in our Department of First Stories. We’re publishing it in Black Mask because he was so clearly inspired by the style of Chandler and Hammett. The tale is set in San Franciso 60-some years ago. Its P.I. already stars in a just-completed novel!

1

A tall blonde came to see me about her hot boiler, but when I stepped off the elevator on the seventh floor of the Rose Building that late May morning, I didn’t notice her at first. I looked to my left and saw this fellow holding up the wall. His hat brim was so big, it cast a shadow on his face, and only the glow of his cigarette showed underneath. His sport jacket came down to his knees, and his pants had enough extra material in them to wrap the trunk of a redwood tree.

But my office was to the right and I turned away from the zoot-suit kid and walked down the hall. That’s when I first saw the tall blond dish pacing outside my door. Her pillbox hat was cocked at an unusual angle; her sunglasses didn’t cover what looked like a fresh shiner. Her peach blouse was soiled and gapped a bit where it was missing a button at bra level. The seams of her stockings ran as straight along the backs of her calves as Lombard Street down Russian Hill. The overall impression she made was of a piece of bruised fruit, or of a hooker who handled a lot of rough trade.

“Morning,” I said, as I slipped my key into the lock on the door. “Tough night?”

“Are you the detective?”

She had a vaguely European accent. The d and each t in “detective” were clipped and hard; the h in “the” was barely there. “That’s right. Frank Swiver’s my name. Come on in.”

I opened up shop and gave us some lights. An inner door with smoked glass had my name in black letters across the top, then underneath:

I held that door open for the tall blonde. Following her in, I flipped my fedora onto the hat rack and slid the guest chair out. “And you are?”

“I am Mrs. Karin Maldau,” she said. “Thank you.”

Car-with-a-rolled-r-eeen. Karin. “And how can I help you today, Mrs. Maldau?” I moved around my desk and sat in my swivel rocker.

She opened her bag and took out a deck of Old Gold Kings. “Do you mind if I smoke, Mr. Swiver?”

“Be my guest.” I opened the middle desk drawer, found an ashtray, and slid it to her. Then I struck a wooden match and reached it across. Yes, she steadied my hand with hers when she lit up.

“Thank you.” It sounded almost like “tank you,” or “dank you,” but there was a slight aspiration in there. I smiled and waited.

“Mr. Swiver, I have trouble. My car has been stolen.”

I felt a bit deflated. I had rather hoped she was being blackmailed over some nude photos she’d posed for. “Your car was stolen?”

“Yes, that’s right. I want you to get it back.”

“Mrs. Maldau, I would like to help you, but I have to be honest.” I rubbed my hand through my hair. “I really don’t do a lot of auto-theft work. In fact, I can’t recall the last bent car case I handled. I think you’d be better off letting the police work on this. Have you reported it yet?”

“No.”

“Well, first thing, let’s call it in,” I said, and reached for the blower.

“No.” She jumped to her feet. “You mustn’t... I mean, I mustn’t have the police.”

I leaned back. “They can help you.”

Karin Maldau sat back down. “No. I don’t want the police.”

I waited.

“My husband, Mr. Maldau. He would be very angry with me. It’s a brand-new car, you see. He just bought it for me.”

“Make and model?”

“Nineteen forty-nine Mercury. It’s a coupé. Two-door coupé. Purple.”

“When did this happen, Mrs. Maldau?”

“Last night, sometime before six A.M. I have been waiting for you in the corridor for two hours.”

“Maybe the cops coulda done something in those two hours. They coulda put out an APB — that’s an all-points bulletin, Mrs. Maldau.” I grinned. “If the thief was joyriding, they might have spotted the car. It’s a new model. There aren’t many of them on the streets.”

“No cops, Mr. Swiver.” She raised her voice to say that and winced. I noticed red marks on her throat. “I want you to find my car.” She reached in her purse and brought out a wallet. “Here are two hundred dollars. I don’t know your fees, but that is all I have with me.”

“My fee is twenty-five dollars a day, plus any expenses.”

“Here are two hundred now. I will bring you another two hundred when you recover my car. But you must make haste. Put aside your other cases.”

“Well, I could do that. I could focus on your case. But the police have more resources. They have a better chance of success in a matter like this. I’m just one guy.”

“I think I am not getting so much for my money, maybe. But still... I must have back my car. My offer remains.”

I didn’t have any other clients at the time. I could probably have parallel parked a ’49 Mercury in the hole in her story, but the four pictures of General Grant that she’d fanned out on my desk were authentic enough.

“Let’s say I could find your boiler for you, Mrs. Maldau. If I could do it, the police could too, and for no charge. Four hundred dollars is a lot of dough.”

“I told you, I don’t want my husband to know. He has a temper. You find my car. Return it to me. He will not know it was gone. I will take a cab home now. I will tell him I left the car at the home of a lady friend.”

“Where did you leave the car? Where was it when it was stolen?”

“On Webster Street.”

That was on the edge of the Marina district. “Parked on the street?”

“In the parking lot. Sorrento Inn. That is a motor court there.”

“A motel?” I raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, Sorrento Motor Inn.”

“Did you park it there, Mrs. Maldau?”

“Yes, of course. When I awoke, the car was gone.”

A married dame spends the night at a casual motel; her heap turns up missing. And she didn’t want her husband to know.

“Were you alone at the Sorrento?”

“I was not. But you need not concern yourself about who I was with. It could not possibly help you find the car.”

“All right, Mrs. Maldau. I’ll see what I can do. Do you have the registration?”

“No, it was in the car. But I know the plate number. California yellow plates with blue numbers, 78N395.”

“Car in your name, or your husband’s?”

“His, Agustin Maldau.”

“Do you have the keys?” I asked. She did and she gave them to me. I scooped up the fifties, folded them, and put them in my trouser pocket. “How do I get in touch with you?”

“We’re in the book, Mr. Swiver. But please don’t call. My husband might answer. I will call you in six hours. If you’re not in, I will call again each hour.”

We left it at that. She said goodbye, and I poured a short glass of Chenin Blanc and tried to think of how I’d find a stolen car. I walked over to the window with my glass of wine and looked down on Post Street. I saw Karin Maldau walk out and head toward Union Square. I saw the zoot-suit kid step out of a doorway and head up the street the same way.

2

A black man named George was the porter in the garage. I talked to him when I went down for my heap.

“Stolen when, Mr. Swiver? Last night? Shoot. It’s probably parts by now.”

“Parts?”

“Yes sir.” George pulled a pouch of Bull Durham out of the top of his overalls and started to roll one. He held the paper in his right hand and shook tobacco out of the bag with his left. “Car thief takes a car. What’s in it for him? It’s hot. He can’t sell it. He got no title. But he take it apart, he can sell the tires, the wheels, the generator. He can sell the gears, the radio, the lights. Nobody asks for a title for the parts. Thief can sell ’em all cheap, and he still makes a few hundred bucks. Might make more than a grand. What kind of bucket is it? Cadillac might bring two thousand in parts.” He pulled the strings on the bag shut with his teeth, dropped it in his overalls, finished the roll, and then wet the whole cigarette down in his mouth.

“It’s a ’forty-nine Mercury.” I lit him.

George’s sleepy expression changed. “’Forty-nine Merc? Oh, that different. See, that’s a brand-new car. That’s in demand. Yeah, Ford got them a hit there. You see, you want to buy one, you can’t just get your pick and drive it off the lot. No sir. You gots to wait. You place an order, wait maybe six weeks for Dee-troit. So now, your car thief, he has a product he can move. He don’t have to spend time cuttin’ it up into pieces. He can find one buyer. Yes sir, you might still have a chance here.”

“George, what if I wanted a new Mercury and didn’t want to wait? How could I get a hot one?”

“Don’t know, Mr. S. I don’t work with no hot boilers. Chances are the thief might have already had a buyer. Mighta been fillin’ an order, like. But I’ll tell you what I’d do. How’s your Spanish? You should talk to some Mexicans. Yeah, I think they like that kind of merchandise.”

I gave George fifty cents. He held the door of my ’38 Pontiac open for me. Maybe it was time to shop for a new car.

3

First, though, I paid a visit to the scene of the crime, the Sorrento Motor Inn. It was a two-level modern building, tucked under the morning fog, just south of Chestnut. A couple of quiet gulls sat on the roof. There were about two dozen rooms opening to the outside around a courtyard that was the parking lot. It was now ten-fifteen, and most of the spaces were empty. I parked by the office and went in.

There was a kid in his twenties, black-rimmed glasses and a cowlick, wearing a sweater vest over a shirt and tie, at the desk. I showed him my card and told him I was a private dick on a case. He said his name was Matt Fisher. He said he was willing to help.

“What time did you come on, Matt?”

“Seven, sir. Seven A.M.”

“I have a client whose car was stolen here last night. Do you know anything about that?”

“Just after I came in, sir. Maybe seven-ten. A guy in big baggy pants with suspenders, wearing just his undershirt, sunglasses, and a big hat came to the office. He said he was Mr. Valdes from Two-oh-nine. Said his car had been stolen. I said I’d call the police and he could report it. I started to dial, and then he put his hand down on the cradle, broke the connection. He says maybe he was mistaken, don’t call the police yet. ‘Maybe my wife forget where she park it,’ he says. Then he went out.”

“Can I look at the register?”

“Sure.” He spun it partway around and slid it over to me. There was a Mr. and Mrs. P. Valdes checked into room 209. They listed a purple Mercury with the same plate number Mrs. Maldau had given me. “Did they have a reservation?” I asked.

“No.” He shrugged. “It ain’t that kinda place, sir. Most of our business just stops in if they see the vacancy sign on. Anyhow, about eight o’clock, Mr. Valdes comes back in, said everything was fine. He turned in his key and paid cash for the room, which was six bucks. The lady stayed outside with her back to the window.”

“Short Mexican broad? Dark hair? Kind of stocky?”

He looked surprised. “Mrs. Valdes? No, she was tall, at least as tall as him. She was blond. From the back, it looked like she had a good figure.”

I asked Matt if I could see room 209, and he said sure; he doubted it had been cleaned yet. I said better still, and he gave me the key.

There was a concrete outdoor staircase with a black iron railing. I took the steps two at a time, and the seagulls on the roof took off. Room 209 was in a corner. When I opened the door, the room seemed hazy, as if the fog had settled in. I flicked the light switch and a small lamp on a bed table came on. Then I took a breath and realized the haze wasn’t fog, it was reefer smoke.

The light on the bed table wasn’t strong enough to attract a baby moth, so I pulled open the curtain. One ashtray held light gray ash, the stubs of a couple of homemade smokes, and five or six Old Gold butts. In the wastebasket was an empty bottle of Paul Masson Ruby Cabernet. Two sticky glasses sat on the table, one with peachy lip prints. A soggy towel lay crumbled on the floor of the bathroom. I lifted the spread and blanket from the bed. The sheets were soiled with the lees of a good time.

I could scoop up the dregs of the reefer and I could get prints from the glasses but what for? I was looking for a bent car. So I turned out the lights and stepped out onto the landing, pulling the door to 209 shut behind me.

There was a view from the second level across the courtyard and down to the street. To the south, on Lombard, I could just make out some red, white, and green pennants strung on a line parallel to the street flapping in the breeze. Black lettering on a yellow sign read, “Used Autos... Lopez Motors... Autos Usados.”

4

I was considering a prewar Packard four-door the size of a PT boat when a sharp-dressed man in his forties, maybe five or ten years older than me, with slick black hair and a waxed moustache stepped out of the trailer that served as an office. “That’s a posh machine you’re looking at there, sir. All the luxury options, and only thirty-one thousand miles on it. You could save a lot on that. I just got it in. Picked it up at an estate sale.”

“Buenos días. Señor Lopez?”

The sun was over my shoulder and now he shaded his eyes with his hand and took a closer look at me. I gave him a friendly but dumb grin. I’d tipped the front of my hat brim up, and I hoped that I looked like a rube.

“Sí, Jorge Lopez. Do I know you, señor?”

“No, I don’t think so, Señor Lopez, unless you’ve bought grapes in Santa Rosa. Ha, ha, ha.” I clasped his right hand with both of mine and started working it up and down like a pump handle. “My name’s Kennedy, Francis Kennedy. I’ve just moved to San Francisco. Cómo va el negocio?”

“Bueno, señor. Habla usted español?”

“Ha, ha, ha. Solo un poco, señor, un poco. I was in Spain.” I hung on to his arm a little longer.

“Ah, España. See, I know you don’t talk Spanish like a Mexican. How can I help you? You want to take this Packard for a test drive? It gives a great ride.”

“This? Oh, no. Actually, this is too big for me. I was thinking about a coupé.”

Jorge Lopez was happy to oblige, and I let him walk me over to a ’41 DeSoto two-door. “Ah, Mr. Lopez, what I’m really looking for is a post-war design. I like the way they’re building the new bodies now.”

Lopez agreed that I was a man of taste and style. He liked them, too. But he said, “Unfortunately, not many folks have traded in their post-war cars yet. I could show you a ’forty-eight Chevy Aero, but truly, that is just a pre-war car built after the war.”

“Really, what I’m looking for,” I said, and my left eye picked up a little tic, “is a ’forty-nine Mercury.” There was a distinct pause.

“No, señor. I don’t have that.” He leveled a steady gaze on me. ”That’s a new car. You go to Golden Gate Mercury.”

“Oh, I did go there. I want a purple coupé. They said it’d be about two months to get one. It’s very popular. They can’t keep ’em in stock. There’s a waiting list.”

“That’s too bad. Maybe you want to get a nice used car now. I got a ’forty-one DeSoto. Or you like a purple car? I got a nineteen forty Plymouth in purple.”

“Last night I had dinner at Rosa’s,” I said. “You know it? It’s a Mexican restaurant over by the Mission. Good enchiladas. Anyhow, after dinner I saw this kid parked out there in a ’forty-nine Mercury so I talked to him. He said if I want one and I don’t want to wait, I should see George Lopez.” There went my eye tic again.

“Must be some other Lopez. I’m sorry, I can’t help you, Mr. Kennedy.” He turned and walked towards the trailer.

“Three grand, señor. Two thousand, seven hundred, the price of the boiler and three hundred berries because I want it now.” He stopped. “All in cash, of course.”

Lopez turned around and hitched up his pants. “It’s true; I have some good connections in the auto business. Sometimes I can get a car outside of the channels that the new car dealers have to use. Let me talk to some people. You have a number where I can call you?”

I had better than a number. I gave him a card for Francis Kennedy, Wholesale Grapes, and wrote my Old Vine office phone number on the back.

5

I stopped for an early lunch at the Black Lizard Lounge, a place I knew south of Market. I went with the fried chicken, and had a half-bottle of ’45 Vosne-Romanée from Henri Jayer to wash it down. They often say that burgundies have a dumb period, when they shut down. I think the Jayer was playing dumb.

After that, I went to Motor Vehicles and looked up the plate number Karin Maldau had given me. It checked out — a purple, two-door, 1949 V-8 coupé, registered to Agustin Maldau. He’d bought it only two months ago. I took down the serial number for the engine, and the Maldaus’ home address, which was in Sea Cliff near Baker Beach.

Then I swung by police headquarters and looked at the police blotter for stolen cars. No ’49 Mercurys had been reported missing for the last two weeks. Finally, I picked up a cup of java and went back to my office to wait for Karin Maldau’s call.

I had a hunch Lopez might call me, too, so when the wire buzzed at three-ten, I answered by repeating my phone number. It was Lopez, so I became Kennedy. He was all cheery, like any slick used-car salesman. Good news, maybe he could help me out, if I was still interested in doing business. I told him I was more than interested, I was eager.

“I made some calls, Mr. Kennedy, and I think I’ll have your car late tonight.” He asked me if I could come by his place after nine.

“I thought you closed at six,” I said.

“Usually we close, but tonight, I’m gonna stay late and wait for you.” I said we could do it in the morning. Lopez said it was a very special deal and he preferred to do it when there wouldn’t be other people nosing around.

I told him I had to get a ride over, so that I could drive my new car home. “How about ten o’clock?”

“Okay,” he said, “but no later. And look, this is a special deal. That’s why I’m staying late. I don’t want everybody to know about it, so come alone. Have your friend drop you off down the street, and walk the last block. And bring cash. Three thousand.”

“I get the pink slip and everything, right?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said. “You get it all.” It sounded to me like we had an understanding, so I said I’d see him tonight.

About fifteen minutes later, the phone rang again. This time it was Karin Maldau. “Mrs. Maldau, nothing definite yet, but I might have something for you later on this evening. I have a good lead.”

“My husband has gone to Half Moon on business, Mr. Swiver. I expect him to spend the night. If you get the car back tonight, could you come by the house?”

“Are you alone?”

“I have a Chinese servant, but no one else is in the house tonight. We may rely on her discretion.”

“Very well,” I said. “If things work out, I’ll call you, and then come out. It’ll be eleven or twelve.”

“I look forward to seeing you then.” She hung up.

6

I closed up shop at four-thirty and drove home. One leftover piece of roast pork, a couple glasses of Louis Martini’s Monte Rosso Zin, and three hours later, I put on some coffee. While it was brewing, I changed into some dark duds for the evening.

By dusk, I’d had my java and, flashlight in hand, I headed out the back door. I walked eight blocks north on Octavia to Greenwich Street, then I turned left, staying a block south of Lombard.

I arrived at Lopez’s lot at about ten minutes of nine, well after dark. I scrambled over the link fence and eased my way between the rows of cars toward the trailer, taking my time and staying in the shadows. About nine, I saw Lopez link a chain between two concrete posts on Lombard Street, then go inside his office. A half a minute later, the big lights on the back lot went out, though the small ones on the office stayed lit. And there she was, basking under a dim bulb behind the trailer, a ’49 Mercury coupé in dark purple.

There were no plates on the car. I could check for the serial number, which I had with me, but I had an easier way to find out in the dark if this was the heap I was looking for. I had the keys.

So I duck-walked between cars until there was no more cover, then I sprung across the open space the last fifteen feet, crouched by the passenger side of the Mercury, and slipped the key in the door. It worked. I got in, slid across, and put the key in the ignition. Pulling out the choke, I stepped on the clutch and pressed the starter. The V-8 roared to life and went into a fast idle. Don’t stall now, Swiver.

I had the touch with the clutch and I slipped the tranny into first and wheeled around the trailer, heading for the Lombard Street gate. I saw Lopez open the trailer door and come down the wooden steps. He grabbed at the back of his head, and I realized he was wearing a rug and losing it in the excitement. Then he pulled a short revolver out of his waistband.

I went over a curb to avoid the chain, spun right onto Lombard, and changed up to second. I’ll say this for that Merc — it took off like a goosed waitress. I swung left on Fillmore and pulled out the headlight switch. Easing in the choke, I took a sharp right on Bay. I swung right on Van Ness and started to cruise easy. No tail from Lopez’s joint. And it didn’t look like I’d awakened any cops. Grand theft auto. Two could play that game. I turned right on Pacific and headed back to Octavia and Lafayette Square. I pulled the Mercury up the drive, eased it into the garage, cut the motor, and had the garage doors shut before you could say Bonnie and Clyde. It was just nine minutes past.

7

In the quiet of the garage, I could hear my heart beating. First thing I did was pull the hood release to see the engine on this baby. It was a flathead V-8, like you might find in any Ford, but it had three Holley carbs lined up down the middle of the V, instead of the standard Stromberg. Each carburetor had its own little cylindrical air cleaner, like a miniature gun turret, on top. I took out my pocket flashlight and compared serial numbers. It was indeed Agustin Maldau’s bus. Next the trunk.

I found a man’s blue-jean jacket, a small black leather satchel, and a large canvas sack. I started with the jacket. ID in the breast pocket showed it belonged to Pacho Valdes of Oakland. Pacho had also left an envelope in the side pocket containing a small amount of marijuana and a package of Tip-Top cigarette papers.

I opened the leather satchel next. It was stuffed with ten-dollar bills, banded in packets about a half-inch thick, maybe about fifteen packets. Things were getting interesting.

The canvas bag was about a thirty-gallon sack, the size that holds fifty pounds of onions or potatoes. It was full of bricks, about two inches by six inches by ten. They were wrapped in brown butcher’s paper, and each one was tied with a pink string. I took out my knife and made a long slit in one. A pungent, grassy, and sagelike smell escaped. It was marijuana, leaves, sticks, stems, and seeds pressed into resinous bricks. I took a deep breath, then put my brick back in the sack, closed the trunk, and went inside.

I sat down in the kitchen to think. I think well with a glass of zinfandel, so it was back to the Louis Martini bottle. At about ten, I called Karin Maldau.

“Things are running smooth on my end. I’ve got your crate and I can bring it out, if you like.”

“My car,” she said, “is everything okay?”

“How do you mean?”

“You know, no damage? All intact?”

“I didn’t see any scratches. The license plate’s gone. Everything else appears to be there. I’ll put my plate on and drive out there now.”

8

The Maldau house was on 25th Avenue North, which I needed my city map to find. It was a big two-story house, and the breeze from behind it was salty, with a whiff of kelp.

I parked in the drive, walked to the front door, and rang the bell. In a few seconds, the door flew open, and a short young Chinese bim stood there, looking inscrutable around the mouth and eyes, and damned exotic. “You come in,” she said. It was a welcoming invitation, yet with a hint of command. She backed up a couple steps and drew her red silk kimono closed, but not with any great modesty. Her legs were bare and lean, and a bit of slender brown thigh peeked out.

“Missy Karin, she upstairs.” She moved her left arm up, pointed toward the center hall steps, then twisted her wrist and hand to indicate I should turn left at the top. I stood there looking a little dumb taking her in, so she said, “You go up.” Again, it had that mix of invitation and command. Again, she waved her hand pointing up, motioning for me to turn left. This time I took a good look down the wide opening of the short-sleeved kimono and saw enough to know she was naked under the little silk robe. She shut the front door behind us. Then she padded past me towards a downstairs room, hard calf muscles flexing, and I watched her long black mane dance left and right at the top of her butt cheeks with each step.

I went up the stairs and turned left. There was a door ajar and I stepped into a bedroom with peach walls, lit by a low gas fire. A bed with a black spread, a dressing table and chair, and a chaise by the window were all of a sleek, modern design. I went over to the window and checked behind the curtain. At first I saw nothing but blackness, but soon I could make out the white curl of waves rolling up to the beach.

A bathroom opened off the bedroom and that door was ajar too. I heard water draining. I cleared my throat.

“Bao-yu, bring me my towel.” A peach-colored Turkish towel lay on the bed, so I picked it up and stepped toward the voice. The tall blonde stood naked in the tub, very tall, very blond. Although she was light-skinned, there was nothing pasty or sallow about her. Her skin was taut and she looked as solid as a marble statue, especially in the long thighs. But she’d been worked over, and the surface of the fine marble was marked with red and purple swelling. I held out the towel, and she took it and rubbed off gently, just patting the bruised parts.

“Someone’s hurt you,” I said.

“More than one someone.” She wrapped the towel like a turban around her wet hair, and put out an arm for me to assist her. I helped her step out of the tub. Her right eye was swollen and mostly shut. Both eyes were black. Her upper lip was cut.

“Come,” she said. “Tell me about the car. You brought it?” We went to the bedroom and she sat up tall at the dresser, facing the mirror and crossing her legs at the knees. I sat on the chaise where she could see me in the mirror. She began to powder her body.

“I brought it. I can see now why you were willing to pay four hundred dollars to get a twenty-seven-hundred-dollar car back.”

“You like the car?”

“Oh, yeah. I like the car, but you’re paying me because of what was in the trunk.”

“You found the pieces of luggage?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’ve got the money, and I’ve got the merchandise.”

“Then you have saved my life, Mr. Swiver. What would you like to know? Ask me.”

And so I did. I asked her about the dope, the dough, and Pacho Valdes. It seems Mr. Agustin Maldau was in the import business. Maldau sent his wife to meet the buyers, deliver the drugs, and bring back the jack. Pacho Valdes of Oakland was one such buyer. As far as Karin knew, Pacho was a big dealer across the bay.

I learned that Mr. Agustin Maldau was a middle-aged man, twenty-four years older than his wife. They had been married five years. He used Karin in his business, and he used her as his wife. He liked to be seen with her, and he used her as an object. Karin wanted love. She wanted someone who would treat her like the vital young woman she was. Karin and Pacho had done business many times, and now, when he made a buy, she spent the night with him. It was one occasional night of pleasure in a drab existence, and her little revenge against Agustin Maldau, the man who used her.

Karin had driven to meet Pacho in Golden Gate Park last night. He checked the merchandise; she counted the money. Then they had locked both in the trunk and took the Mercury to the Sorrento Motor Inn. They’d stayed there before. Not thinking about any risk, they left everything in the trunk and hurried up to the room, where they smoked some jujus, drank some wine, and made love.

In the morning, the car was gone. Pacho flew into a rage. Not only was his jacket and ID in the trunk with the illegal merchandise, he figured the Maldaus had set him up to make off with his stake and keep the dope. He slapped Karin around until he finally started to believe her that it hadn’t been a setup. Then he brought her downtown to the Rose Building and forced her to wait for me.

“How did you pick me?”

She just shrugged. “Pacho found your name in the phone book. I think he wanted to go somewhere no one would see us. You seemed right.” I made a mental note to cancel my ad in the Yellow Pages for next year.

“After you agreed to the job, we took a streetcar out Geary. Pacho picked up his car in the park and told me to call him in Oakland when I heard from you. I rode out further and walked home.”

“Did you call him?”

“Yes, tonight at ten, after you called me. But he doesn’t know yet that you are here or that you recovered the money and the goods.

“When I came home this morning, Agustin was here. I told him I had left the car at my girlfriend’s because it wouldn’t start, that I would get it this afternoon. But he didn’t believe me. He beat me until I told him the truth. Then, when he knew I’d spent the night with Pacho and lost the money and the car, he beat me some more. I passed out, Mr. Swiver. When I came to, he was gone. Bao-yu, my maid, helped me upstairs and into bed. She told me Agustin had gone to Half Moon. That is where he brings in most of his merchandise. Then I slept.”

“Did you tell Agustin you hired me?”

“Yes. I am sorry.”

“That doesn’t matter.” I might have to look over my shoulder for a week or so, but I was betting Agustin Maldau would forget about me when he saw he had his car and his money back.

Karin put on a robe and came out to the Mercury with me. I opened the trunk. She picked up the bag of jack. I picked up the sack of weed. “Leave it,” she said. “And the jacket. I must meet Pacho and deliver his goods. Only then will I be safe.” She took the money and started back in.

“Listen,” I said, “I’d better get going.”

“I will give you the other two hundred.” She opened the black satchel. I told her she already paid me enough for one day’s work. “Then wait while I put something on. I will give you a ride.” It was eleven-fifteen.

“I don’t want to be any trouble to you. I’ll walk down to Geary and get a streetcar. See you, Mrs. Maldau.”

“Don’t be silly. I must go out anyhow to meet Pacho. Where can I drop you?”

I told her Lafayette Square.

9

Karin Maldau had a box of license plates in her garage. She selected a fresh one and gave it to me to put on the Mercury in place of mine. I offered to drive, but she insisted she could see through both eyes. She sat erect in the seat, well back from the wheel, her gams spread enough to work the gas and clutch, and her skirt up above the knees. She handled the wheel and gearshift like a farm girl might help a pregnant horse deliver a colt, with care, but with the firmness needed to do the job right. She smoked, and I asked for one. She tossed the Old Gold pack into my lap.

“What about the drugs, Mr. Swiver? Will you be going to the police?”

“You hired me to find your car. I did. If I went to the police, there’s nothing I could tell them without violating your confidence. That would be bad for business.” I looked back over my shoulder for a tail. Carrying that sack of weed in the trunk made me edgy. “What about the maid? She’s quite the hot little number.”

She smiled, for the first time, and exhaled a long cloud of smoke. I lit up. I hadn’t had Old Golds for some time; this one tasted fresh.

“Really? I never noticed.”

“Any boyfriends?” I asked.

“No. I always thought of Bao-yu as rather asexual.”

“How far can you trust her?”

“Oh, completely. Agustin hired her for me when we got married. She does everything for me. She knows Agustin’s business, but she’s completely loyal. I’m sure we have nothing to fear from her.”

I wasn’t so confident. “I’ll give you some advice.”

“I’m listening, Mr. Swiver.”

“Drop these guys, Mrs. Maldau. They play rough. You’re lucky you’re still walking around. And you’re talking like Lauren Bacall.”

She put a hand to her throat. “I was throttled,” she said.

“It’s only going to get worse. Drugs is a bad business. It looks like gravy for a while, but it’s poison underneath. You don’t belong in this.” I took a drag on the Old Gold. Trying times? Try a smooth Old Gold.

“Will you come with me to Oakland, to deliver the goods to Pacho? I would feel safer.”

“That would make me a knowing accessory in a crime, Mrs. Maldau.” I checked behind us one more time. Then I looked again at her knees. Her skirt had slid up another inch or so.

“I would pay you to be my bodyguard.” She held her cigarette between her lips, steered with her left hand, and dropped her right hand down onto my leg and rubbed lightly. When we came to a red light, she took her cigarette in her left hand and leaned across for a lingering kiss. That was a surprise, but it was nothing compared to what she did next. She exhaled a long drag of smoke down my gullet.

The light turned green. I coughed. “Say, these aren’t regular Old Golds.”

“They’re Old Gold Kings,” she said, and giggled.

I found that funny too. “Old Gold Kings. Ha, ha.”

“Ha, ha, ha.” We had a good laugh together. I tried another drag on my cigarette.

“I empty the tobacco out, combine with marijuana, and pack the blend back in. Good, no?”

“Good, yes,” I said. At the next red light, we leaned together for more kissing. Her right hand moved into my crotch and I slid a paw up her right leg, which she held muscled down on the brake pedal. In a couple of blocks, she turned left at Presidio Avenue and pulled to a stop in front of the Casa Rosa Inn. This dame knew all the classy flops between the ocean and Oakland.

“Get us a room, Frank.” It took willpower to break the clinch, but I went into the office. I signed us in as Mr. and Mrs. Francis Kennedy, paid four and a half bucks in advance, and got the key for room 24. I saw a small bodega open across California Street, gave Mrs. Kennedy-Maldau the room key, and went across to get us a bottle of wine. I must have been getting high, because I nearly stepped out in front of a chopped and lowered sled. I should have been able to see it coming — there were flames painted on the side.

10

You can imagine what happened. We smoked a couple sticks of tea and drank that bottle of wine, an Italian Swiss Colony red, if anybody asks. The next thing I recall was coming out of a dream, but in the instant of waking, I forgot the dream. I opened my eyes to the sun coming in on my face through the Venetian blinds. I turned over, and found myself naked and alone. Water ran in the bathroom. Karin’s rags were draped over a chair. It was just after six-thirty.

I got myself upright and realized I felt good. The bathroom door was open, so I popped in, and stood at the toilet. “Karin, how you feeling this morning?” There was no answer. When I was finished at the bowl, I smiled and stuck my head inside the shower curtain. The tub was empty. I blinked but it was still empty. I turned off the water and got dressed.

My first thought was that when I got downstairs, I’d find the Mercury gone, like it had been last night. But it was out front on Presidio where we’d parked it. Some small detail looked wrong, though. It was the key, sticking out of the trunk lock.

It was very bright out, and I took my sunglasses out of my sport coat pocket and put them on. I looked up and down Presidio. I was the only one out on the street. A bakery truck was double-parked by the bodega, making a delivery, and a couple of cars were at the gas station on the far corner.

I weaved across the white pavement, like a nervous spider. I lifted the trunk lid. The still-wet, naked body of Karin Maldau lay folded in the trunk. The head and neck were at an unnatural angle. I put two fingers on her pulse, hoping for a beat, but it was nothing doing. The canvas bag of dope was gone. I closed the trunk lid quietly and pocketed the keys.

Now I was in that dream I couldn’t remember dreaming a few minutes ago, back upstairs. It was a bad dream, and I couldn’t wake up. It was so bright out, I felt a need to get out of the sunlight.

I got in the Mercury and fired it up. I pulled out on Presidio Avenue and drove north to California Street, taking it easy. Let’s see, it wasn’t my car, the plates were phony or stolen, and there was a dead blonde in the trunk. If a copper nailed me now for running a stop sign, I was looking at two life terms if the jury liked me. I decided to go back to the Casa Rosa and pick up Karin’s clothes, and see what traces I’d left in the room. Maybe I’d even find a clue.

I pulled into the alley east of Presidio. Up in room 24, I wiped down anything I thought might have my prints on it, packed Karin’s clothes in a pillow case, and picked up the unfinished pack of Old Golds.

There were a few hairs on the bedding, some blond, some of mine. I picked up the ones I could see. I gathered some more blond hair from the shower drain, and flushed it all down the toilet.

As I walked out from the bathroom to the door, something caught my eye on the floor near the radiator. It was a pair of dark glasses, men’s. Someone had been here who wore shades in the early morning. Karin had struggled enough to knock them off, and after he’d killed her and put her in the trunk, he thought it was too risky to come back for the sunglasses.

I picked up the shades and went down the back steps into the alley. Whoever snatched Karin probably went this way too, or the kid on the desk might have noticed someone abducting a naked five-foot ten-inch blonde through his lobby. But there was nothing to find out back in the alley, so I drove the Mercury out to the Maldaus’.

11

At nine o’clock, I parked on a side street off Lincoln Boulevard and made my way along the beach towards the Maldau place. I found a footpath that led up to 25th Avenue North, and hustled up it. The house was quiet. There was a new Jaguar roadster in the driveway, and a low-slung modified car with flames painted on the side parked in the street out front. I think it had once been a Chevy. I slipped into a service alley wide enough for a man on the west side of the house, and made my way back to the beach side, where there was a big redwood deck across the rear. I found some French doors, slipped my knife between them, forced the lock, and slipped into the Maldau kitchen.

I went through the dining room to the front parlor, where I saw two men. One, in a sharkskin suit, had grey hair and his back was to me. The other wore a zoot suit. He faced me, but now he had no sunglasses. I was backlit by the sun in the east windows of the dining room. I took out an Old Gold King from Karin’s pack and lit up. The zoot-suit kid said, “What are you doing here?” Then the other gent turned around.

“Ah, you must be Mr. Swiver,” he said, with equanimity.

“And you’re Agustin Maldau,” I said with what self-possession I could muster. “I brought your Mercury back. Nice ride.” I tossed the keys at his face, but he snagged them with the grace of Joe DiMaggio pulling in a liner to center. “Pardon me for not knocking, Maldau. I haven’t had my morning coffee and thought I’d see if you had any on in the kitchen. Why don’t you introduce me to your friend in the Sleepy Lagoon getup?” The kid had reached in his pants and pulled out a nickel-plated Colt revolver. It was pointing my way and it was a dangerous gun, but I was twelve or fifteen feet away, and I thought he was having trouble looking into the sun.

“Ha, ha, ha. Sure. This is Pacho Valdes. Pacho, meet Frank Swiver. He’s the gentleman who recovered your goods. He’s a shamus.”

“Do we need bean-shooters, Maldau?”

“I should hope not. Pacho, put up your gun.”

“No hasta que tiro este maricón.” Pacho was being disingenuous; I figured he had first-hand knowledge of my sexual bent.

Maldau’s eyes hardened and he pulled a blue automatic out of his jacket pocket. “Put it away, Pacho. Now. I don’t want you to shoot him in my house.” That registered, and the kid lost the revolver somewhere in the pleats of his trousers. “Now go see if he’s rodded.”

“I’m not, but if I was, it would take more than this greaseball to take it from me.”

“Skip the tough-guy stuff, Swiver. I’m not letting you get the drop on us. Pacho.” Maldau nodded in my direction, and the zoot-suit kid swaggered over. I let him search me with what he thought was a rough flourish. I’ve had worse.

“He’s clean,” he told Maldau. Maldau put his heater back in his pocket.

“By the way, how is Mrs. Maldau today?” I said. “Or haven’t you seen her?”

“I don’t want to see her.” He spit on the carpet.

“I brought her home. She’s dead. I figure Pacho knows about that.” Pacho slugged me on the button with a short right hand. I rolled my head back with it, and kept my feet planted.

“Cabrón,” he muttered through clenched teeth. My lip started to bleed. I spit on the carpet.

“Yeah, I figured it was like that. See, Mr. Maldau, Karin was in bed with me.”

“And for that she died. You were one too many, smart guy. I told Pacho to kill her. Pacho was business, but her skating with you was... well, she should have known I couldn’t allow that.”

“You told Pacho?”

“That’s right. When you brought the car back, I called him. I told him to get out here, follow you two, and pick up his goods. I said if he blipped Karin off too, he could come back this morning and I’d give him his money back in payment.”

“Yeah,” said Pacho. “Let’s get on with that, man. I want to get out of here.”

“Certainly, my friend,” said Maldau. “Your money is in the desk in the library. It’s still in your bag. Please go ahead. Second drawer on the right.” Maldau pointed at another set of doors across the room. Pacho rolled across the room as if he was walking underwater. “And Mr. Swiver, we must decide what to do with you. Get in here and sit down.” Maldau’s gun came out of his pocket again. I stepped down to the living room and found a leather chair. He sidled across to the front window, keeping me covered. He moved the curtain for a quick look, then did a double take.

“Where is the Mercury?”

“Parked nearby. How did you know I was out here last night with the car?”

“I’m not ready to tell that yet. Where did you park? Where is the body?”

“I’m not ready to tell that yet.” I said. He was across the room in two steps and tried to pistol-whip me. I ducked enough so he just got my shoulder. I don’t think it cracked the clavicle, but pain shot down my right arm.

About then, Pacho Valdes returned from the library with the same black leather bag I’d found in the trunk. He held it in front of himself by one handle, and his right hand dug around inside the satchel. Maldau turned to face him. “Pacho, we’ve got to find the Mercury.”

“I don’t think so.”

“What do you mean?”

“I found it last night. I don’t want to look for it again. It’s your problem.”

Maldau stretched his lips thin with hatred. “You little punk. He’s got the body in the trunk. Don’t screw with me. You killed her. You need my protection.”

“I don’t think so. I got my money.”

Maldau started to raise his gun at Pacho. A hole ripped through the end of the black bag. There was a muffled boom, and Maldau clutched his gut. Two more booms, and shreds of money and leather flew out of the bag. Maldau went down. Pacho withdrew his right hand and the smoking revolver from the satchel, and snapped the sides shut.

“Now I can shoot you anyplace I want, maricón.”

“Maybe you can’t see me so good without your shades, Pacho.” I stood up and backed towards the dining room and the eastern light.

“Maybe I come a little closer, smart guy.”

When Pacho reached the middle of the living room, there was a roar from behind him, and he lurched forward as if he’d been poleaxed. Another explosion and he dropped his pistol and clutched the red blossom on the front of his suit. His eyes rolled up into his head and he fell on his face. Behind him stood Yan Bao-yu with a Luger in her hand.

“I hear everything. He kill Missy Karin.”

I finished the Old Gold and put the butt in an ashtray. I was pretty stoned.

12

I stepped into the library where Pacho had just been and found a phone on the desk. I had it in my hand and had already dialed the number for the cops when Bao-yu came in.

“Who you call?”

“Police,” I said. It was a delicate moment. She seemed to be a good shot.

“Put phone down. No want police.”

“Put Luger down, Bao-yu. I’m Miss Karin’s friend. You saved me from Pacho.” The cops picked up. I heard, “Homicide, Overby,” come over the wire.

“Ha! Maybe that mistake. I let Pacho shoot you, I no have to.” She wore a natural-colored raw silk tunic and black silk pajama pants. She looked just as arousing in that getup with a gun in her hand as she had last night in the kimono.

“You don’t have to shoot me, Bao-yu.” I put the receiver down easy on the desk, but didn’t break the connection. I stepped to my left and held my hands out to the sides. “Here’s what we can do. We’ll have some law out here. This morning, Pacho broke Karin’s neck. Then he shot Maldau. Now Pacho’s dead. The law’s not going to waste time on him.”

“I should go. Get away from here.”

“Nix. Here. Have one of Miss Karin’s cigarettes. Let’s talk.” I took out the pack of Old Golds. There were a couple of cigarettes left in it, and I shook them partway out in offering.

“Silly man. Those smokes loaded.”

I smiled at her, took one between my lips, and put the deck back in my pocket. She was letting the barrel of the Luger droop down and slightly away from my chest. “So, how did Pacho know I was out here last night with the Mercury?”

“Mr. Maldau call him.”

“Maldau was in Half Moon, Bao-yu. How would he know? Do you think Karin called and told him?”

“How I know? You ask her?”

“Didn’t have to. I know who called him. You were the only other party here last night, Bao-yu. You weren’t Karin’s maid. You were her keeper. You watched her for Maldau. You were his partner. This is good reefer, Bao-yu. Where’s it from?”

“Indochine.” She said it the French way. The Luger came up, but while we were chinning, I had moved into position. I sidearmed a cushion off the couch at her with my left. She tracked it with the tip of the Luger as if it was a clay pigeon, and she blasted it. I sprang at Bao-yu and I was on target, too. She went down on her back hard and her head bounced on the wooden floor.

I pinned her arms and straddled her, sitting on her stomach. My right arm was still weak, but I had good control of her gun hand with my left. She wiggled like a snake in a sauté pan of hot oil under my spread legs.

“Overby,” I yelled out, “are you still on? This is Frank Swiver.”

His voice came over the line like an old recording on a weak radio station. “Swiver. I thought I recognized that voice. Yeah, I stayed on.”

I yelled out the address. “I’ve got three homicides here. Mr. and Mrs. Agustin Maldau. They’re the owners of the house. Mr. Maldau was bringing in marijuana and selling it wholesale. Pacho Valdes of Oakland, one of his big customers, killed them both. Yan Bao-yu, Mrs. Maldau’s maid, shot Pacho.”

“You holding the maid?”

“She got away.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” said Overby, and I could hear him hang up.

I took the gun from her hand and sat up on my heels.

“You shoot Bao-yu now?”

“No. Too many have died.” It wasn’t my line; it was Hammett’s, but I liked it. “Besides, you saved my life.” I hung up the phone, went out to the living room and got the keys to the Merc off Maldau, and walked out to get it. Some fog was rolling in, but the wind had abated a bit. When I got back, there was no sign of Bao-yu. Maldau’s Jaguar was gone.

I carried Karin in and laid her beautiful cold body out at the foot of the stairs, which seemed to be as good a place as any. If they looked closely, they’d know she was killed somewhere else, no matter where I put the stiff. I was counting on them not looking too closely. I wiped the luger off and dropped it in the sand out back off the deck.

The weed was good. I took a brick of it from Pacho’s trunk and covered it with sand. I could come back and dig it up later. For now, I sat on the deck in the fog and listened to the Pacific Ocean wash in. There’d been a jug of Sardinian wine on the kitchen counter. I waited for the buzzers, drank from the bottle, and thought about the tall blonde who’d come to me about the hot boiler.