David Dean - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 125, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 763 & 764, March/April 2005

Dazey dabbed her arm with alcohol and placed the used needle in a tray.

She closed her eyes, smiled, then opened them again. “I don’t think I’ll go out tonight,” she said. “I think I’ll stay right here.”

“We’ll see how you feel,” he said cautiously. Even a hint of disapproval might send her on a frenzied escapade.

“Maybe I’ll go pick up Wally and make you dinner.”

Even now she was beautiful, he thought, her moist eyes sparkling like a grove of blue spruce after an ice storm, her mouth turned up sweetly. “I need to check on my patients,” he said. “I’ll be back in a few hours. Do you want me to have Betty Rose come stay with you?”

“No, I’m fine. I feel better now.”

“Okay, my precious.” He’d call Betty anyhow. “You get some rest.” He kissed her on the forehead and left the door to her room ajar.

Later that evening, despite promises to her husband and reprimands from her maid, Doris dressed for a night out on the town.

She drove her chocolate-brown Packard to the palisade at the end of Pico Boulevard. The night was young, just beginning to take on a life of its own. Santa Monica Pier, lit up with Ferris wheels and amusement rides, twinkled below like a rhinestone bracelet on a colored chanteuse.

Slowly, she drove down the incline to the pier, through the crowds of teenagers, sailors, and lovers arm in arm, her tires clapping over the wooden planks. Garish lights spiraled around her like fireworks — pink, yellow, and blue. She inhaled deeply the scent of cotton candy and fried fish, and watched couples dance to Les Hite’s big band broadcasting from Frank Sebastian’s Cotton Club. Overhead, a roller coaster swooshed down like an avalanche, excited screams and laughter tumbling after like loose scree. The pier trembled with excitement.

She parked and stepped out in a white gown, white sable stole, and silver slippers. The cool ocean air rushed into her lungs; her eyes sparkled. She gazed out into the vast black ocean.

Anchored just beyond the three-mile limit, the casino ship S.S. Rex rocked in the gentle surf, its lights strung between its masts down to the bow and stern. Like a jeweled crown awaiting her coronation. She walked down the pier to the water taxis.

Thirty minutes later, under the warm golden glow of gas lamps, amid boisterous laughter, the clack of roulette wheels, and the squealing saxophones of Curtis Mosby’s band playing “Society Blues,” Doris tossed her dice like breadcrumbs to greedy gulls. She admired her graceful arms and her white hands. She saw others taking note of her, flattering her with long looks. Her temples pulsed, her breath quickened. She talked to no one except the croupier, reveling in her performance — the mysterious woman, cool and aloof.

She played for nearly an hour, losing more than she won. As she leaned forward to bet more chips, she glanced up through the window to the deck. Two men, escorted by the ship owner, Tony Cornero, strode past the gaming room, followed by two bodyguards. She caught her breath. She recognized the shorter man from a mug shot in Ballyhoo magazine. She remembered the headline: “Hollywood’s Long-Legged Lookers Lindy-hop with Ganglord.”

He wore a double-breasted overcoat that hung to his knees, a fedora pulled down over his brow; only his mouth and chin were visible. The block of flesh beside him turned his square head toward Doris in slow motion as if sensing her gaze. His eyes bored into her, a warning as clear as sirens before dawn.

Doris stood trembling, fascinated. A rush of heat and electricity pulsed through her; her cheeks felt cold, her upper lip moist.

“Snake eyes!” called the croupier. “You win, madam. Would you like to roll again?”

As if woken from a dream, Doris turned back to the table and picked up her dice. Snake Eyes: That was one of his nicknames. It was a sign.

Her eyelids fluttered shut; she clutched the edge of the table until her dizziness passed. She was shivering and her temples burned. Was her fever coming back? No, it must be the rush of the roulette wheels, and the gimlets she’d been drinking. She picked up her chips, cashed in her earnings, and tucked the crisp bills into her sequin purse. She pulled her stole around her shoulders and walked outside.

The sea air, heavy with moisture, aroused her, the breeze blowing her silk slip against her naked legs. Lights glittered on the water. The darkness called her.

Snake Eyes climbed down into a private boat, followed by his bull henchman. Quickly Doris walked to the other side of the ship, to the landing stage, and stepped into a water taxi that was nearly full with passengers. Moments later, the taxi pulled out toward the pier.

Doris sat involute among the gamblers, like a moon goddess on a starless night. The water taxi slapped over the rolling swells, the motor puttered. As they neared shore, the shadows under Santa Monica Pier appeared black and still, like evil intent beneath a nervous giggle.

As soon as her taxi docked, Doris hurried up the pier. She spotted the two men pausing in front of a striped canvas tent. She ducked behind a group of teenagers and bought a bag of peanuts. When she peeked back, she saw the men disappear into an arcade.

She followed, sidling into the noisy room. The clatter of games disoriented her. Children shot pop guns at clowns, threw beanbags at frogs, rolled bowling balls at pins. Old men took turns with boys at a pornographic kinetoscope. She noticed a narrow L-shaped hallway, lightless and cool. She slipped behind the Skee-Ball lanes into the dark.

The hallway was eerily quiet. She inched back, feeling the roughness of the wood through her slippers. Two closed doors stood at the end of the passage. A toilet flushed and the left door opened. A small weasel of a man shuffled past her buttoning up his pants.

Beneath the other door shined an inch of light. A brass plate mounted halfway up read Manager.

Doris slipped into the bathroom and shut the door. The moist air stank of human excrement. She let her eyes adjust to the darkness, listening: ocean waves crashing against the timber piles beneath her; bells and slamming balls from the arcade; and, in the next room, tense angry voices. She concentrated hard, but couldn’t make out what they were saying. Then three thumps and a man’s grunt. She looked up.

Several feet above, a streak of light the size of a quarter shone through a knothole in the plank. Her stomach quivered with excitement and dread. She stood on the toilet seat and peeked next-door.

The bull was kicking a man who knelt like a dog. The man’s elbow gave way and he collapsed to the floor. Snake Eyes sat in a captain’s chair, his face in dark shadow. He spoke quietly. Slowly he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. The oil-skin lamp on the desk illuminated his face: It was heart-shaped, framed by a widow’s peak, with heavy brows over small, close-set eyes. His thin lips barely moved when he spoke. He said something to the bull, who picked up the crumpled man and slammed him down in a chair in the corner. Snake Eyes stood, put on his hat, and walked toward the door.

As the gang boss reached for the doorknob, the bull pulled out a gun and shot the man in the chair. A second shot blew off the top of his head. They turned and left. As simply as if they had said goodbye.

Doris felt the man’s guts smack against the wall. She clasped her hand over her mouth, corking a scream. The men entered the hallway and closed the door to the manager’s office. Their shoes paused outside the bathroom.

She dropped her bag of peanuts, which scattered across the floor. Horrified, she pressed her back against the wall, holding her breath, expecting any moment for the bathroom door to slam open, for them to gun her down. Blood throbbed in her temples: Could they hear it? She prayed not to faint, but felt her legs becoming numb, her head inflating and floating away.