David Alexander - Masters of Noir - Volume 4

“In that case, why don’t we go to your house for a cup of coffee?”

“It isn’t a house; it’s an apartment, Miss Ladugo. And my landlord frowns on my bringing beautiful women there.”

“Am I beautiful?”

I thought she moved closer. “You know you are,” I said. “All beautiful women know it.”

Now, I felt her move closer. I said, “And you’re drunk and you don’t want to hate yourself in the morning. So why don’t you open that window on your side and get some cold, fresh air?”

A chuckle and her voice was husky. “You mustn’t give me a rejection complex.” Another pause. “You—”

“Quit it,” I shot back at her.

Her breathing was suddenly harsh. “You bastard. I’m Spanish , understand. Spanish and English. And the Spanish goes back to before this was even a state.”

“I know,” I said. “I just don’t like to be sworn at. Are you sure you don’t want to go to Zuky’s?”

Her voice was soft again. “I’ll go to Zuky’s. I–I didn’t mean what I said. I–In bars like Bugsy’s, a lady can pick up some — some unladylike attitudes.”

“Sure,” I said. “What’s the attraction there? Bugsy?”

“It’s a friendly place,” she said slowly. “It’s warm and plain and nobody tries to be anything they aren’t.” She opened the window on her side and threw her cigarette out.

I said, “You try to be something you aren’t when you go there. Those aren’t your kind of people.”

“How do you know? What do you know about me?”

“I know you’re rich and those people weren’t. I can guess you’re educated and I’m sure they aren’t. Have any of them invited you to their homes?”

“Just the single ones,” she said. “Are you lecturing me, Mr. Puma?”

“I’ll quit it. It’s only that I hate to see — oh, I’m sorry.” I stopped for the light at Olympic, and looked over at her.

She was facing my way. “Go on. You hate to see what?”

“I hate to see quality degenerate.”

The chuckle again. “How naive. Are you confusing quality with wealth, Mr. Puma?”

“Maybe.” The light changed and I drove on toward Wilshire.

Two block this side of it, she asked, “Who recommended you to Dad?”

“Anthony Ellers, the attorney. I’ve done some work for him.”

She was silent until I pulled the car into the lot behind Zuky’s. Then she asked, “Don’t you ever drink, Mr. Puma?”

“Frequently. But I don’t have to.”

She sighed. “Oh God, a moralist! Tony Ellers certainly picks them.”

I smiled at her. “My credit rating’s good, too. How about a sandwich with your coffee? It all goes on the expense account.”

She studied me in the dimness of the car and then she smiled, too. “All right, all right. Get around here now and open the door for me like a gentleman.”

Zuky’s was filled with the wonderful smells of fine kosher food. From a booth on the mezzanine, Jean Hartley waved and made a circle with his thumb and forefinger. I ignored him.

We took a booth near the counter. Almost all the seats at the counter were taken, as were most of the booths. I said, “This is a warm and plain and friendly place and the food is good. Why not here instead of Bugsy’s?”

Her gaze was candid. “You tell me.”

I shook my head. “Unless you have some compulsion to degrade yourself. Cheap bars are for people who can’t afford good bars. And all bars are for people who haven’t any really interesting places to go. With your kind of money, there must be a million places more fun that Bugsy’s.”

Her smile was cool. “Like?”

“Oh, Switzerland or Sun Valley or Bermuda or the Los Angeles Country Club.”

“I’ve been to all those places,” she said. “They’re no better.”

The waitress came and we ordered corned beef sandwiches and coffee.

Jean Hartley materialized and said, “Joe, Joe old boy, gee it’s great to see you.”

“It’s been nice seeing you, Jean,” I said. “So long.”

My welcome didn’t dim his smile. “Joe boy, you’re being difficult.”

“Go, Jean,” I said. “This isn’t the Palladium .”

He looked from me to Miss Ladugo and back to me. He shook his head. “I don’t blame you,” he said, and went away.

“Handsome man,” Angela said.

I shrugged.

“Tell me,” she asked, “are you really as square as you sound?”

I shrugged again.

“That man wanted to meet me, didn’t he? And he didn’t know I’m rich, either, did he?”

“He probably does,” I said. “He’s worked his way into better fields since he milked the lonely hearts club racket dry.”

“Oh? Is he what’s called a confidence man?”

“No. They work on different principles. Jean trades on people’s loneliness, on widows and spinsters, all the drab and gullible people who want to be told they’re interesting.”

Angela Ladugo smiled. “He seemed very charming. I suppose that’s one of his weapons.”

“I suppose. I never found him very charming.”

“You’re stuffy,” she said. “You’re—”

The waitress came with our orders and Angela stopped. The waitress went away, and I said, “I’m a private investigator. Decorum is part of what I sell.”

She looked around and back at me. “Are you sexless, too?”

“I’ve never been accused of it before. I’ve never taken advantage of a drunken woman, if that’s what you mean.”

“I’m not drunk. I was, but I’m not now.”

“Eat,” I said. “Drink your coffee.”

There was no further dialogue of any importance. She ate all of her sandwich and drank two cups of coffee. And then I drove her back to Beverly Hills and up the long, winding driveway that kept the Ladugo mansion out of view from the lower class drivers on Sunset Boulevard.

A day’s work at my usual rates and it never occurred to me to be suspicious of the Buick four-door hardtop that seemed to have followed us from Santa Monica.

I billed Mr. Ladugo for mileage and the sandwiches and coffee and fifty dollars for my labor and got a check almost immediately. I had done what I was trained to do; the girl needed a psychiatrist more than a bodyguard.

I worked half a week on some hotel skips and a day on a character check on a rich girl’s suitor. Friday afternoon, Mr. Ladugo called me.

What kind of man, he wanted to know, was Jean Hartley?

“He’s never been convicted,” I said. “Is it facts you want, sir, or my opinion of the man?”

“Your opinion might be interesting, considering that you introduced him to my daughter.”

“I didn’t introduce him to your daughter, Mr. Ladugo. Whoever told you that, lied.”

“My daughter told me that. Could I have your version of how they happened to meet?”

I told him about Zuky’s and the short conversation I’d had with Jean Hartley. And I asked, “Do you happen to know what kind of car Mr. Hartley drives?”

“It’s red, I know that. Fairly big car. Why?”

I told him about the Buick that had followed us from Santa Monica. That had been a red car.

“I see,” he said, and there was a long silence. Finally, “Are you busy now?”

“I’ll be through with my present assignment at four o’clock. I’ll be free after that.” I was through right then, but I didn’t want the carriage trade to think I might possibly be hungry.

“I’d like you to keep an eye on her,” he said. “Have you enough help to do that around the clock?”

“I can arrange for it. Why don’t I just go to this Jean Hartley and lean on him a little?”

“Are you — qualified to do that?”

“Not legally,” I answered. “But physically, I am.”