Гэри Бранднер - Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 33, No. 3, August 1973

She was a delectable cookie, fashioned for man’s sampling. Now she was dead. Could I find the man who had done it?

It took a while for my eyes to adjust to the dim light in the Golden Goose. Then it took a while longer for me to recognize Gil Foster sitting alone in a rear booth. In the three years since I last saw him Gil had grown deep sideburns, added a moustache, and mod-styled his hair.

I picked up my beer and carried it over to the booth.

“Hello, Gil,” I said.

He jumped as though I’d blown a police whistle in his ear. For a couple of heartbeats he stared at me wildly, then his face relaxed as recognition came.

“Dukane, you bandit. What brings you downtown?”

“Would you believe I happened to be passing by?”

“No.”

“You’re right. Lillian called me.”

He dropped his gaze to the tabletop. “You mean my wife had to get a private detective after me? What more does she want? She’s got the kids, the house, the station wagon, the bank account.”

“Come off it,” I said. “Lillian called me as a friend of the family, not a detective, and you know it. She has an idea you’re in some kind of trouble, and she asked me to see if I could help.”

“I’m sorry, Dukane,” he said. “Sit down. I guess I’m just surprised to see you.”

“Yeah, it’s been a long time.”

“Lil and I talked about having you over for dinner a hundred times, but... well, you know how it is.”

I knew all right. Old friends from the husband’s bachelor days don’t fit into the family scene. I said, “It was a surprise to hear you’d moved out.”

Gil tried to toss it off casually. “It’s no big deal, really. The marriage got stale. Boredom breaks up more couples than infidelity, you know. What gave Lil the idea that I was in trouble?”

“She said you suddenly stopped coming around to see the kids.”

“It was doing more harm than good. She’s got to understand that I’m living a different life now.”

“So I hear. She said you had a place in Manhattan Beach, the Surf Apartments.”

“That’s right. I moved in two months ago after a few weeks in a furnished room in Hollywood.”

“Are those swinging singles places as much fun as they look like in the ads?”

Gil shrugged and glanced at his watch. “It depends on where your head is at.” He looked up at me and his eyes narrowed. “How did you find me here, anyway?”

“I went to your office first. Your secretary said I might find you here celebrating your promotion. Does that mean your name will go on the door — Prescott, Steams, and Foster? ”

“Not quite. It means that starting next week I’ll handle some of the bigger institutional investors and turn my individual accounts over to a new man.” He glanced at the time, which was a quarter after two.

“You’re keeping your celebrating nicely under control,” I said.

But Gil wasn’t listening to me any longer. His attention was directed over my shoulder toward the door. I turned around in time to see a beautifully packaged blonde heading our way.

Gil stood up and let the girl in on his side of the booth. He introduced her to me as Bunnie Moran, a neighbor of his at the Surf.

Bunnie smiled and frisked me with het sky-blue eyes.

“You’re the first old friend of Gil’s I’ve met,” she said.

“Gil and I haven’t seen each other for quite a while,” I said.

“How nice that you should run into each other here.”

“Yeah.”

There followed one of those dead silences in which everybody feels paralyzed. I drained my beer and stood up.

“I’ll be on my way. Take care, Gil.”

“So long, Dukane,” he said with obvious relief. “We’ll have to get together soon.”

“Sure. Nice to meet you, Bunnie.”

The girl switched a smile on and off and dismissed me from the scene. Before I reached the door Gil was talking intently to her while Bunnie looked straight ahead.

Manhattan Beach, twenty miles south of downtown Los Angeles, is known for broad sandy beaches and airline stewardesses. The Surf is a new apartment complex half a mile up from the ocean. It was built in the shape of a square donut, and covered an entire block.

I walked in through a gap in the donut. Beyond the heavy tropical vegetation of the inner court I could see a sparkling blue swimming pool. The individual apartments, each with it’s own patio or balcony, ringed the court. As I stood peering around, a well-tanned girl in a tiny swimsuit strolled over to join me. She had green eyes and a good honest smile.

“Are you looking for an apartment?” she asked.

“It’s a thought.”

“My name’s Rachel Coombs. You’ll like it here.”

“Mine’s Dukane, and I’m liking it already. Are you the manager?”

“No, that’s Aaron. You’ll find him cleaning up the game room from last night’s party to get it ready for tonight’s party.” She pointed to a section of the building on my right with a glass door facing out on the court.

I thanked Rachel Coombs and watched with appreciation as she swung away toward the pool.

The game room was maybe half as long as a football field. A long bar stretched across the far end. In the center was a dance floor surrounded by night club style tables and a bandstand. Near the door three young men shot a bored game of pool.

A bulletin board just inside the entrance was thick with tacked-up announcements and messages. A typed schedule informed me that in addition to the party tonight, this week’s activities included scuba diving lessons, a pingpong tournament, a class in yoga, a Synanon-type encounter group, and a folk song festival.

“Can I help you?” said a mild voice behind me.

The speaker was a head shorter than my six feet three. Something about him seemed out of balance, then I saw that his fight sleeve was pinned up and empty.

“You’re the manager?” I asked.

“That’s right. Aaron Judd.”

“My name is Dukane.”

“I have a couple of singles available — that’s with the sofa-bed — and a really nice bedroom one. I don’t suppose you’re looking for anything bigger than that?”

“To tell the truth, I’m not looking for an apartment at all.”

“Oh?” The wide welcoming smile slipped away.

“What I’m after is some information about one of your tenants — Gil Foster.”

“Are you police?”

“I’m a private investigator, but this isn’t exactly business. Gil Foster is an old friend of mine.”

“What is it you want to know?” As he talked, Aaron Judd walked back to the dance floor and started up an electric floor polisher. I followed. “Foster has been here two months now. Pays his rent on time. He’s a little older than most of the tenants, about your age. We don’t get many over thirty here. At least not many who’ll admit it.”

“Do you know of any trouble Gil might have been in?” I asked.

Judd snapped off the polisher and looked at me closely. “What kind of trouble?”

“That’s what I’m asking you.”

He started the machine again. “If he was, I don’t know about it. It’s not my job to nose into people’s private lives.”

“Signing up some new talent, Aaron?” It was Rachel Coombs, now wearing a short velour robe that still showed plenty of leg.

“Not this time,” Judd answered.

To me the girl said, “Aaron hates to rent to good looking fellas. He wants us girls all for himself.”

The manager grinned self-consciously. “I... I better go see about the lights by the pool.” He stashed the floor polisher and hurried out.