Brett Halliday: Blue Murder

“Do you know anybody who knows her?”

“She’s not a Miami girl. Come to think of it, Tucker has been showing up places alone lately. Does that mean anything?”

“She told him she was reading for the blind. Somebody saw her in Capp’s Cadillac, and she was laughing.”

“Yeah,” Rourke said slowly. “I said she looked sexy. It’s not the way Tucker’s wife really ought to look. I hadn’t thought about that before. She ought to look like a good manager and a good cook and be able to carry on a two-sentence conversation on every possible subject. Wear bras. Smile a lot. Sexy, no.”

“Would it startle you if she appeared in a Warehouse film?”

“Startle me!” Rourke almost shouted. “It would startle me out of my shoes and socks. I’m going to pour the rest of this champagne in a wastebasket and look for a cup of coffee. Then I’m going to put on some dry clothes and come back to Miami.”

“I thought you might decide to do that if I made it sound interesting.”

“Gretchen Tucker in a skin-flick, that would be something to see. What’s your next move?”

“Tucker gave me the name of a girl who’s selling information to his committee. I thought you might go to the paper and look through the clippings, with these possibilities in mind. And don’t say anything to anybody.”

“You’re doling out information with an eyedropper, as usual. Has this film been made? Have you seen it? Or is it just being talked about? Mike, be kind.”

“I’ve seen stills. No, not stills — color slides made from the thirty-five-millimeter frames. Or that’s what I was told they were. One of the actors was doing a Nick Tucker imitation, with the white suit, the hat and the scar.”

“Man, if they can get that into the theaters, they’ll make a fortune. I’ll go to the paper from here. After that I’ll let your operator know where she can reach me. These are big names we’re throwing around. The one thing I don’t like is that Tucker’s the victim.” He added, “He’s a shifty bastard, Mike. Watch yourself.”

Warehouse Productions got its name from its address, a converted warehouse in northwest Miami. The ground floor had been remodeled into a theater, showing mostly pictures made elsewhere in the building. The second floor was divided into two parts: the studio proper — offices, a single huge sound stage, cutting and screening rooms — and a bar serving free beer to those with a ticket stub from the theater downstairs.

Traditionally, porno films have played to an audience ninety-nine percent male. The customers arrived alone and sat in alternate seats. Armand Baruch was trying to break this chessboard pattern and fill the empty seats with women, doubling the capacity of the house. To a degree, he had succeeded. Boys were beginning to bring dates, which had rarely happened in the past. A few adventuresome married couples came to see what it was like. Baruch laid out a little money among the night clerks of the Collins Avenue hotels, who recommended the Warehouse to their tourists, and all at once it became a hard place to get into.

When the drive-ins around the edges of town met the competition by screening blue features, Baruch added an enormous, dimly lit parking lot, enclosed within a strong fence. This was one of the few parking lots in Southern Florida with trees and secluded bays and dead ends. The local uniformed police were given a small retainer to ignore the occasional whiff of burning hash that drifted over the barbed wire. Internal security was enforced by young men with the tans and builds of lifeguards — which was what most of them would have preferred to be — wearing luminous orange armbands.

The usual traffic flow at the Warehouse was from the theater to the parking lot, then to the bar, then back to the parking lot. The movies continued till two. The bar closed at three. All cars had to be gone at four thirty.

Shayne, arriving at the peak of the evening’s activity, parked as close as he could get to the main building. Outside the ticket office, he studied the cast lists at the bottom of the posters, looking for a movie with an actress named Lib in it. A Lib Callahan had appeared in two, Erotic Commune and Loves of Countess Dracula.

To be admitted to the bar, he had to buy a theater ticket, but he bypassed the ticket taker and went directly upstairs. The bar was long and curved, with the price of the drinks chalked on the mirror behind the bottles. Most of the customers were drinking beer. Theoretically no one under twenty-one was allowed to view the raunchy Warehouse films — signs were posted saying this — but again, the police had more important things to think about, such as how to send their children to college on the meager salaries paid them by the city. In spite of the recent innovations, the Warehouse complex still did a brisk singles business. Not all the women, by any means, were hookers. There was a small, crowded dance floor. The air conditioning was overloaded, and the backs of the dancers, swaying in time to a heavy beat, were patched with sweat.

Shayne walked the length of the bar, seeing no one he knew. Coming back, he picked a wall phone off its bracket and dialed. A woman answered, and Shayne chatted for a moment before asking for Max. This was an old friend, who had tended bar in most of the big hotels and was now business agent in the bartenders’ local.

“Haven’t had a good poker game in months,” Max said. “Let’s include Tim Rourke this time, because Lucille tells me I’ve been losing too often.”

“Any night next week,” Shayne said. “Let me know where and when. I’m out at the Warehouse — working, not playing. I need a sponsor. Do you know any of the bartenders here?”

“I must, but they don’t stay long. The paydays haven’t been too regular lately. Let me think.”

“They’re doing good business tonight.”

“That’s at the retail level. It’s the movie company that’s in trouble, according to the story I get. A young guy named Harvey. Sort of baldish in front, with a drooping moustache.”

“I see him. If I put him on, will you give me a reference?”

“Anything in particular?”

“Just that you know me, and I’m not too interested in any of the minor crimes.”

“You mean you’re not a narc or a vice cop. Sure.” Shayne left the phone hanging and shouldered in to the bar in front of the moustachioed bartender.

“If your name’s Harvey, somebody wants you on the phone.”

The bartender looked across at the phone, wiping his hands on his apron. “I keep telling the chick not to call me here.”

He left the bar by the service end and picked up the phone. After a word or two he turned to look at Shayne. Shayne nodded. He came back and Shayne ordered a drink.

“I’m trying to find a girl named Lib Callahan,” Shayne said. “She’s been in Warehouse films — that’s all I know about her. I’m hoping she may be drinking here tonight.”

“Lib Callahan,” the bartender repeated. “Is it all right to use your name?”

“No. I just want somebody to point her out to me.”

Harvey conferred with the other bartenders. Then he tried one of the lightly clad waitresses, who looked around the room and pointed to a far-off table. The bartender returned to Shayne.

“Dark hair, in a pink dress. Big coin earrings. All the way over in the corner, under the Jean Harlow poster. Drinking stingers.”

Shayne took his drink with him, leaving an extra bill on the bar. The four-man rock group was leaving the pedestal, to be replaced by another, equally scruffy. The girl under the poster seemed almost too young to be legally admitted to her own films. Her face showed a trace of sullenness in repose, but when she spoke she bounced in her chair, her earrings jangling. Shayne caught her eye and grinned.