William Davis - Blackmailed

She knew he was absorbed in his work. Every case, it seemed, was his most important… But, he hasn't even wanted to talk to me… Or touch me… ever since that night… he forced me… when he was so drunk…

Was it possible he was making good on his threat… that he was having an affair with another woman… or maybe he was getting ready to leave her…? It's not fair! Just when I was going to… make some changes in my own ideas… and let him do some of those things… he's always wanting to do…

Getting ready to do the clothes washing, she emptied out pockets of Jay's shirts, before popping them into the automatic machine. Ordinarily, she didn't pay attention to the items she removed from his pockets; she just set them aside for her husband to go through, keeping what was important and throwing the rest away. Today, however, a scrap of paper caught her eye. It was a telephone number and a woman's name: Carla Reynolds… the day's date and the time, 2:00 p.m. all written in Jay's scribbled hand. Below, almost indecipherable was a notation that read: B-Girl! i.e. Arnie P. Makes pick-ups at Premiere Room, cocktail lounge…

Betty looked at it as though it were a writhing snake. Did it mean that Jay had an afternoon date with a prostitute? She didn't want to believe that; after all, his work as a private investigator did put him into contact with all kinds of people, including prostitutes. She must be a source of information… or she's involved in a case… somehow…

She tried to forget it… but all during the day, as she went about her household chores, the shopping and, later, at the hairdresser's, it gnawed at her, creating in her mind some doubt as to her husband's reason for making such an appointment. If he were playing around… with another woman… a housewife… or a secretary… I could understand it, and maybe… I could fight it…! But going to a cheap little whore… God! What can I do about it? UGH!

Finally, it was almost three o'clock. She had been conjuring up mental fantasies concerning Jay… and a whore named Carla, wondering vague things… about how they would be doing it. Then, she couldn't stand any more of it. There was one way to find out…

Retrieving the doubt-producing scrap of paper from Jay's desk, she dialed the telephone number, realizing as she did that it was an out-of-area prefix. She let it ring five times. There was no answer. She hung up and looked up the prefix in the telephone directory, discovering that it was a number in Corona del Mar. All the way down there…?

Five minutes later, she dialed, again.

"Hello…?" It was a woman's voice, cautious and a little hesitant.

I hope I can pull this off! "Hello…" Betty said, "this is Mr. Ballard's secretary… I have an urgent message for him!"

"He's not here!"

"Are you Miss… Carla Reynolds…?" Betty asked. "He had some kind of appointment with you… I believe…"

"Yes… I'm Carla! He was here… but he's gone now! Sorry… I can't help you…" She was brisk, anxious to end the conversation.

"Then… he did get to interview you…?"

Carla's laugh was brittle. "That's a good one! It's the first time I've ever heard it called that!"

"I'm sorry… I-I don't understand…"

"Then… you don't know why your boss was here?"

"No… he-he didn't tell me…"

"Well… he interviewed me… while we were both naked on my bed! Does that explain it?"

"Yes… yes, it does!" There was a catch in Betty's voice.

"… And, I hope to hell I never see him, again!" The line went dead.

p(line).***

Carrying her single suitcase, Carla left her apartment, purposely leaving several lights burning. She closed the door, locked it and went down the stairs to the carport.

Just as she was putting the bag in her car, it was roughly taken out of her hand.

She gasped, as she looked up into the unsmiling face of Jack Stearns. He hefted the suitcase. "This feels like it's a little overweight… that is… if you happened to be going somewhere on an airline!"

"It's… j-just some things I'm taking… to a girlfriend's house…" she lied.

"Now… that's a coincidence!" Jack spat out at her. "A real coincidence… that just a few minutes after Mr. Jay Ballard leaves here… you decide to take a little trip…!"

"I don't know… wh-what you're talking about!"

"Ballard's a private eye… and he's working for Arnie Pearson!" he barked. "Does that jog your memory?"

"You're wrong!" she gasped.

"No, I'm not! Now, what did you tell him…?"

"Nothing! What could I tell him? I don't know anything!"

"Tell that to Warren… when we get there!" he told her grimly. "Now… get into my car! Don't cause any commotion… and you won't get hurt!"

God! How did I get involved… in all this?

p(line).***

When Arnie Pearson had left Jay Ballard's office the day before, it hadn't taken him long to realize that he was being followed.

He first spotted the car while he was still on the streets, before gaining the freeway South. To find out for sure, he stopped at a newsstand, examined some magazines casually and finally bought a paper. The driver of the big Oldsmobile pulled past his parked car and stopped to wait. He wasn't able to get a good look at the driver, but he noted the letter and number combinations of the Olds' license tags… So, now they're tailing me! Trying to find out where I've moved to… no doubt.

Getting back into his car, he headed for the freeway. The Oldsmobile stuck right with him… as he drove fast… then slowed down. The Olds' driver stayed right behind him through a couple of lane changes. There's no doubt at all! He's following me!

Arnie settled down to travel at sixty-five miles an hour in the number two lane of four lanes. He held his speed steady for seven or eight miles; then, he began slowing down, little by little, until he was cruising at fifty-five. The Olds crept up closer, until there were only four or five car-lengths between them.

Then, as he was approaching an off-ramp, and the third and fourth lanes were clear on his right, he suddenly gunned his rental Ford, cut across the two open lanes and darted into the off ramp, leaving the driver of the Olds a choice of following him to a certain crack-up, if he attempted the same maneuver, too late… or continuing on down the freeway safely, losing Arnie, in the process. The driver of the Olds realized too late what had happened. It was impossible for him to follow. He chose the freeway and lost his man. Damn! I made it! And, all that guy knows is that I was headed South!

Making his way westward on one of the Boulevards, Arnie found the coast route and followed it South towards home.

It worried him; things were rapidly coming to the boiling point. He was on edge… and he was cloddish with Joan in bed that night. Afterwards, he didn't sleep too well.

Now, the following day, he had spent at the Olympic working out, because he didn't want to get out of condition completely. He showered, spent several minutes swapping stories with some of the other boxers, then left the gymnasium to head for home.

This time, it was a big, green Pontiac that followed him. I'll have to shake this guy… for good… I guess… As he drove along the streets, his mind churned, trying to think of something. An idea formed in his brain. Damn it! Of course… that's it! Carry the fight to him!

Spotting a corner news kiosk, Arnie pulled in to park, hopped out of the car, on the right side, and sprinted along the sidewalk for three or four car-lengths. Ducking into a doorway, he waited.

The driver of the Pontiac, he saw, was the same man who had followed him the day before, and just as he had, yesterday, his pursuer pulled ahead of Arnie's parked car, angled into the curb and stopped.

Arnie walked out into the street and approached the car from the left front. The driver was twisted around, looking over his shoulder to where he expected his quarry to be at the newsstand.