Raymond Chandler: Poodle Springs

"Of course. It makes people think he is important. But he is not. If he were important I would know him."

"And he you," I said.

She smiled at me as if we knew the secret to eternal health.

"I'll bet you have big muscles," she said.

"No bigger than Bronco Nagurski," I said.

"Do you think I'm beautiful?" she said.

I nodded. She drank a little more of her drink and put the glass down and smiled at me.

"I think you're beautiful too," she said. "But you have not seen everything." She twisted suddenly and put her hands behind her back and unhitched her bra strap, then she rolled over and arched and with the same quick grace she slid out of the bikini bottoms. Then she lay back against the chaise again and smiled at me, her pale tan body naked as a salamander.

"Dandy," I said.

She continued to smile and stretched her arms out toward me.

"Have I told you about Mrs. Marlowe?" I said.

She smiled even more brightly.

"You are married." She shrugged. "I am married." She beckoned again with her arms.

I took a cigarette out and put it in my mouth and let it hang there unlit.

"Look, Mrs. Lee…" I started.

"Mrs. Ricardo," she said. "Lee is my maiden name. So you may call me Miss Lee, or Mrs. Ricardo, you see. But you can't call me Mrs. Lee."

"Fine," I said. "You are very attractive, and I am very male, and seeing you there rolling around in the nude has the usual effect. But I usually like to spend a little more time getting to know the women I sleep with, and being as I'm married and all, I only sleep with my wife."

I took the unlit cigarette out of my mouth and rolled it between my fingers. We both looked at it.

"Which I do often," I said.

There was a fat round silver and pigskin table lighter on the end table near her chaise. I reached over and picked it up. I put the cigarette back in my mouth and lit it. When I looked up from doing that, I saw a tall man with a very strong nose standing in the doorway. I exhaled smoke slowly.

"What the hell?" the tall guy said. He had high shoulders and black hair slicked back smoothly from a widow's peak and hard dark eyes that glimmered on either side of the hatchet nose.

"Tommy," Sondra Lee said, not even looking. She took a delicate taste of her vodka. "Mr. Marlowe was admiring how beautiful I am."

"I can see that," Tommy said.

"Mr. Marlowe, this is my husband, Tommy Ricardo."

I nodded politely.

"Okay, pal," Ricardo said. "On your way, and quick."

On the chaise Sondra Lee giggled and wiggled herself a little.

"For chrissake, Sonny, cover yourself," Ricardo said, then his glance came back to me. I was still sitting, considering my cigarette.

"On your way, I told you once, pally. I'm not going to tell you again."

"Sure," I said. "You're tougher than a sackful of carpet tacks. She do this often?"

"She's a lush," he said. "She does it a lot. On your feet."

He took two steps toward me and his right hand came out of the pocket of his plaid madras sport coat. He had brass knuckles on it.

"Does this mean we're engaged?" I said.

He took another step and I was on my feet just in time to pull my chin out of the way of the knucks as they glittered past it. I stepped in under the right arm that was extended past me, slipped my left arm under his left arm and got a full nelson on him and held it.

"My name's Marlowe," I said. "I'm a private detective, and I came here to ask your wife about an entirely unrelated matter."

Ricardo was breathing hard. But he wasn't struggling. He knew I had him and he was waiting.

"Unrelated to what," he said in a half-strangled voice.

"Unrelated to her getting soused and taking off her clothes."

"You son of a bitch," he gasped.

"Taking them off wasn't my idea. She looks good, but I've got a wife who looks better, and when you showed up I was telling her that."

From the chaise, Lee was still giggling. There was real excitement in the giggle now. I looked over. She was still buck naked.

"Mrs. Ricardo, do you know anything at all about a guy named Les Valentine?" I said.

She shook her head slowly. Her eyes were wide and the pupils were very dilated. Maybe there was more than vodka in the decanter.

"Okay," I said. I bent Ricardo farther forward with the nelson. Then I put my knee against his backside, let go the nelson and shoved with my knee. He went forward stumbling three or four steps, and by the time he was able to get his balance I was out of the solarium and heading through the living room. I wasn't carrying a gun. I hadn't figured to need one at the top of Beverly Glen. He didn't come after me and I was out the door and in my Olds and heading downhill, with the sound of her giggle still ringing in my ear.

It was five o'clock and the traffic back into the Valley from L.A. streamed past me. The lights in the houses began to flick on, making sort of a Christmas tree effect in the dark hills. Sondra Lee's home probably looked just as pretty as the others now, in the early evening, with the darkness gathering. They knew something out here. You could make anything look good with the right lighting.

The three-hour drive back to Poodle Springs was more than I could face, so I had a steak in a joint on La Cienega and bedded down in a roach trap on Hollywood Boulevard, where the bed would vibrate for a minute if you put a quarter in the slot. There was no room service, but the clerk said he could sell me a half pint of bonded rye for a buck.

I sipped a little of the rye while I talked on the phone to Linda. Then I fell asleep and dreamed of a cave with a cross-beamed door that stood half open and from the darkness came a giggle endlessly repeating.

In the morning I showered and shaved, ate eggs and toast at Schwab's counter and drank three cups of coffee. I loaded my pipe, got it fired, climbed into the Olds and drove through Laurel Canyon. I picked up 101 in Ventura and headed west through the Santa Monica Mountains and then north along the coast.

San Benedict looks like tourists think California looks. It is full of white stuccoed houses and red tile roofs. The Pacific rolls in flatly along its ocean front where palm trees grow sedately in a long, orderly park.

The Chamber of Commerce was in a cluster of Spanish-type buildings that looked like somebody's idea of a hacienda, about two blocks uphill from the ocean front. The bald guy manning the office had on arm garters and suspenders and smoked a noxious cigar that was obviously not worth the nickel he'd spent on it.

"My name's Marlowe," I said. "I called yesterday asking if there was a movie company shooting here."

Baldy took the cigar out of his mouth and said, "Yep, logged that call in myself. Right here." He looked down proudly at an open ledger. "NDN Pictures shooting something called Dark Adventure . I told you."

"Yes, sir," I said. "Could you tell me where they are today?"

"Absolutely, Bub. We make 'em tell us every day, so we can steer people away from the traffic, or toward the set, depending on what they want."

"Smart," I said.

"Which do you want?" he said.

"Toward the set."

"Shooting today." He consulted a batch of papers on his desk. All the papers were clipped together with a big metal spring clip. He licked his thumb. "They're shooting today…" He thumbed several papers, licked his thumb again, came to a mimeographed sheet, studied it a moment. "Shooting at the corner of Sequoia and Esmeralda. It's a playground."

He looked up at me with a big friendly smile, shifted the cigar to the other corner of his mouth. His teeth when he smiled around the cigar were yellow.

"Down the hill, left along the water, 'bout six blocks, can't miss 'em. Damn trucks and trailers and things all over the place."