Curt Colbert - Seattle Noir

“Don’t get too excited,” I said. “We just got thrown a major curveball.”

“What d’ya mean?”

I gave him the scoop about Harold Sikes hiring me for the same reason his wife did.

“Don’t monkey around, ain’t funny.”

“It’s the straight skinny.”

“No shit?”

“No shit. I’m on Harold’s tail right now.”

“Ain’t that the shits?” There was a long pause. “Somebody’s playin’ us for suckers!”

“I agree. Nothing we can do presently, though, except keep our eyes and ears open.”

“Hey, she’s pulling into a parking spot. Dame’s about to get out of her car.”

“Stay on her,” I said. “And stay in touch.”

“You got it. Over and out.”

I put my radio microphone back into its holder and continued following Harold Sikes through the moderate mid-afternoon traffic. So far, Dorothy Demar had done exactly what she’d told me: gone to Frederick & Nelson. We’d have to see about the rest. Likewise for Harold-I was real interested to see if he, too, would stick to the itinerary that he’d laid out for me.

He did. Made a beeline to his tailor, J. Berrymann & Sons, at 4th and Union. Swank joint. Had lots of polished brass and green marble fronting the plate-glass windows by the place’s entrance. I didn’t see any price tags on the display suits in the windows, so I figured it was one of those places where if you had to ask the price you couldn’t afford it. At least I had a decent view of Harold from where I was parked. I could see him pretty clearly past the window display as his tailor went to work on getting him fitted. So I stayed put, had a cigarette, and bided my time. Kept my eye out for danger, of course, but the only real danger turned out to be me smoking too much.

I was halfway through my fourth Philip Morris when Harold came out, got into his car, and promptly headed for the Rolf of Switzerland Beauty Parlor near 1st and Pike. I wondered what business he had at a beauty parlor, but my question was soon answered when he tooted his horn and two glitzy bimbos came out and met him at the curb. One had flaming red hair, was about half his age, and looked cheaper than the prize in a box of Cracker Jacks. The other chicken, also a redhead, wore a pop-your-eyes-out, bright blue evening dress that revealed the deepest cleavage this side of the Grand Canyon.

A perfect gentleman, Harold got out of the car and held the passenger door open for them. They scampered into the front seat, but not before each got a playful smack on the rump from the old boy. Then Harold slid behind the wheel and hit the road again, where he hooked up with Highway 99 and headed north.

Half an hour later, we ended up at our destination: an updated Prohibition-era roadhouse a few miles past the city limits called the Jungle Temple Inn.

I found parking fairly close to Harold’s car in the Jungle Temple’s big gravel parking lot. Instead of getting out and going inside, though, Harold and his chippies stayed put in the Packard for a while, the three of them busy kissing and horsing around as they nipped from a bottle of liquor that somebody had brought along.

While they had their playtime, I put in a radio call to Heine. I could hear the loud jazz music blowing out from the Temple as I waited for his reply. Place was a swinging hot spot. I knew it well, having done a little bootlegging for the original proprietor back when I was in my late teens. Now the booze was legal and the joint was even bigger and more popular than it had been during its speakeasy days. They featured jazz and swing that really got your feet moving. Had a huge dance floor, Class A hooch, good eats, and some of the best bands around. Even late on a Friday afternoon, the joint’s parking lot was filling up fast.

“Hey, Jake,” came Heine’s voice over the radio. “Where you at?”

“Jungle Temple.”

“The Temple, huh? Got some sweet memories of that place.”

“Anything out of order on your end?”

“Nah,” he said. “No kind of threats or anything, unless you count this Romeo that Dorothy’s with: he’s been all over her like hot fudge on a sundae.”

“Yeah? Where are you exactly? And tell me more about this Romeo.”

“He’s some swarthy joe she hooked up with at Vic’s Grill on Third Avenue. They had a couple drinks there, hardly touched their steaks, though-looked to me like they were hungrier for each other than the meal. Anyway, right now I’m tailing them past Chinatown up South Jackson Street. Nothin’ out this way except those Negro jazz clubs. Bet that’s where they’re planning to let their hair down. What about you, Jake? Anything exciting?”

“Not really. Except that Harold’s got two dames with him. They’ve been playing plenty of Post Office, but I haven’t seen a hint of anything sinister… Wait. Hold on a minute.” Harold and his redheads were getting out of the car. “Gotta go, Heine. My people are fixing to go into the club.”

“Likewise for mine, I think,” he told me. “Yup. They just parked outside the Rocking Horse. You know the place.” I could hear him opening his car door. “Talk to you later. Over and out.”

I signed off the radio and watched Harold, a girl on each arm, make his way across the parking lot. Then I piled out of the Roadmaster and followed them inside the Temple, both dames giggling and kicking up their heels the whole while.

The sound of their laughter was soon drowned out by the crazy combo that had the joint hopping. It was jammed to the rafters already, the parquet dance floor and most of the sixty or so tables ringing it almost full. Harold had no problem getting seated, though: slipped the floor manager a couple of bills and was promptly led to the one empty table front and center to the dance floor. Me, I was lucky to find a spot clear in back by the long saloon-style bar. But that was okay; it suited my purpose just fine. I was far enough away to be the epitome of discreetness, but still close enough to have an eye on business if somebody tried anything with Harold.

As if reading my mind, Harold turned my direction, looked straight at me, and smiled, like he approved of how I was keeping watch. Then he went back to nuzzling his chippies, both seated so close to him that they were almost in his lap.

I needed a drink if I was going to keep this up for long. No waiter in sight, I stepped to the bar to place my own order. That’s when the phone on the bar’s back counter began to ring. It kept ringing while the husky crew-cut bartender set up a round of drinks at the far end of the bar, then finally made his way down to me.

“Be with you in a second, bud. Gotta get this damned phone.” He jerked the receiver from its cradle. “Yeah? Who? Jake Rossiter? Look, I’m too busy to-”

“Hey, that’s for me; I’m Rossiter.” He handed me the phone. “This is Jake,” I said.

“Jake! Bad news.” It was Heine, all agitated. “Dorothy Demar’s been killed.”

“What?”

“Happened a couple minutes ago.” I could hear sirens in the background as he spoke. “Her and her Romeo both.”

“Damnation. Where and how?”

“Outside the Rocking Horse. They were about to go inside when all of a sudden this big DeSoto speeds right up over the sidewalk and squashes them against the wall. Hit so hard it almost cut them in half. Couldn’t do a thing about it. Car sped away by the time I got over to check on them.”

“I’ll be a sonofabitch.”

“Sure wasn’t any accident,” said Heine. “Dorothy Demar was telling the truth about her hubby. Had to be him behind this.”

“Yeah. And he made me his chump,” I said, now seeing the true reason why Harold hired me. “I’m his damned alibi, Heine. Get it? Harold will claim that I was watching him the whole time and he wasn’t anywhere near the Rocking Horse when his wife bought the farm.”