Max Collins: Neon Mirage

“Don’t you call me a whore, you crummy louse. I never took a dime from any man.”

I was wearing shorts and a T-shirt. Watching her was having an effect on me. She noticed and stopped being mad. She smiled, covered her mouth, catching the laugh.

“You’re pretty self-righteous, aren’t you, Nathan Heller-for a man whose dirty mind is sticking out.”

That embarrassed me, and I went in the other room and got dressed. She came out a few minutes later, wearing the flimsy satin blue gown, sweet little boobs bobbling, and said. “You wouldn’t happen to have a car, would you?”

“Yeah,” I said, “but it’s parked behind my office. That’s only a couple blocks from here, though.”

“Would you pick me up out front, and take me home? I can’t hop a streetcar like this”-she gestured sweepingly toward herself-” and I don’t have cab fare.”

“I could give you cab fare.”

Her jaw tightened. “I don’t want any money from you, Nat. Nate.”

“Sure I’ll give you a ride.”

She smiled; no teeth, but plenty of dimples. She had a face like an angel and a hell of a body.

“Sorry I was so rough on you,” I said, later, picking her up out front, as she slid in on the rider’s side of my ’32 Auburn.

“It’s okay. It’s nice that you care.”

“You should stay away from these gamblers and gangsters. And Virginia Hill.”

“You were friendly enough with her.”

“Yeah, but I’m a lowlife. You find some other social circle to move in. Don’t go taking off your clothes posing for no calendar artists, either.”

“It pays pretty good money. Times are hard.”

“You’ve done okay. I don’t imagine your family fell on hard times much. I bet you get an allowance.”

“Is that what you think.”

“I think you’re a spoiled brat, is what I think.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. And check back in with me after you grow up.”

“Why?”

“I’d like to spoil you a little myself.”

And I’d dropped her at her flat, young Peggy Hogan, and hadn’t seen her since, though I’d thought of her from time to time, and her perfume that smelled like roses.

Now here she was, some eight years later, looking older but not much older. She did seem wiser. That was my impression, anyway. Later I’d learn better.

For right now, I sat across from her desk in the lawyer’s cramped outer office and said, “You look like you took my advice about school.”

“Yes-but I didn’t find a husband.”

Yet hung in the air. It didn’t scare me. If she was on the lookout for a husband, I could think of worse ways a man could invest his fife.

“Well,” I said, “you did find a right proper job.”

She smiled sadly. “It took me a while. I’ve only been working a little over two years.”

“Oh?”

“Only since Dad’s first stroke. I tried to be an actress, after I graduated from Sawyer Secretarial. Lived in an apartment in Tower Town; made the Little Theater scene.”

That made me flinch. “I, uh, used to have a girl down there who did the same thing.”

“Oh? Who?”

I told her; it was an actress whose name she recognized.

“I’ve seen her pictures!” she said, the violet eyes getting even larger.

“Me too,” I admitted. “When did you give up acting?”

“Like I said-when Dad died. I have five sisters, Nate, of which I’m the oldest. I had one brother.”

“I know. Your uncle mentioned it. I’m sorry.”

She nodded gravely. “Johnny was the valedictorian of his class. He was all set to go to college and the war came along.”

“He was drafted.”

“Enlisted.”

“I suppose your dad intended for him to take over the business.”

“Yes he did. Dad always liked a drink of whiskey, but after we lost Johnny, he…he got to like it a little too much. The business slipped, and pretty soon Dad was gone. Stroke. Two strokes, actually. The second one killed him.”

She was telling this flatly, not the faintest quaver in her voice; but her eyes were close to overflowing.

“So your uncle helped you out,” I said. “Got you this job.”

“Yes,” she said, brightening, using a tissue from a box on her desk to dab her eyes. “I’d never used the skills I’d learned, way back at Sawyer…and I’ve been surprised to find out I still have those skills, surprised more than that to find I enjoy using them.”

“That’s nice. I’m glad things are working out for you.”

“If things were working out, Nate, you wouldn’t be here, would you?”

“I guess not. You want to tell me about the notes, and the phone calls?”

“I can show you the notes,” she said, getting into a desk drawer. Very business-like, she had them in a manila file folder.

There were three of them; your standard ransom-style, letters-cut-from-papers-and-magazines threats: DROP THE RAGEN CASE OR ELSE; LAY OFF THE BLUE SHEET OR WAKE UP DEAD; FIND A NEW CLIENT OR DIE. Not very original, but the point came across.

“None of these are addressed to you,” I said.

“I’ve been on the end of the phone calls. Most of them have been messages for Mr. Levinson. But they’ve from time to time threatened me, too.”

She didn’t seem very bothered.

“If it’s not too difficult for you, what have they said?”

“Oh, no death threats, not at me. Just that they’ll cut my face up. That kind of thing.”

She was pretty blase about it, and looking at her close, I didn’t think it was a pose. This little dame had balls. So to speak.

“What would you think about me tagging along with you,” I said, “for the next week or so?”

She smiled wryly; one deep dimple. “I’d like that fine. I don’t have a boy friend…at the moment. So you wouldn’t be getting in the way of anything.”

“I’m going to put a man right here in the office with you. I’m personally going to escort you to and from work. We’ll go out for lunch and supper together, too.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Dutch treat?”

“Your uncle’s buying. I’m on an expense account.”

“You know, I’m living at home, now. In Englewood. I’ve been taking the streetcar to work…”

“We’ll put you up at the Morrison.”

“You don’t still live there?”

“Actually, yes. Different room, though. I moved in when I got back from service, temporarily, and I’m still there. I’m looking for something else, but you know the housing situation.”

She nodded. “Do you have a couch?”

“Yes.”

“I could move in with you.”

“That’d be ideal, really. If you think you could trust me…”

“Do you think you could trust me, is the point?”

“I could find out.”

We began sleeping together that night. She made me promise not to tell her uncle. I accepted those terms; I wasn’t crazy. I took his hundred bucks a day, charged him expenses, and slept with his niece. I said I was a lowlife.

On the fourth of our days together, we had just dined at the Berghoff and were walking down West Adams, heading back to the Morrison, when a figure stepped out of the alley. He meant to scare us, and he did, planting himself like an ugly tree before us. He was big and he was pasty-faced and hook-nosed, wearing an ugly blue and white checked sportcoat over a white sportshirt and baggy light blue pants. He looked like a bouncer in a circus museum.

“Tell your boss to drop the case,” he said, and he jerked a thumb at the alley. “Or the next time I come outa one of these, I’m gonna drag yas back in.”

He didn’t seem to know me; hell, he didn’t seem to notice me. I didn’t know him, either, but you didn’t have to be Jimmy Durante to smell mob on this guy.