Джон Макдональд - The Girl, the Gold Watch and Everything

He hailed a cab and asked to be taken to Rio’s in North Miami.

The driver said, “You wanta go where the action is, you don’t wanta go there, sport.”

“Going to meet some buddies there.”

“Okay, so what you do, you go in and bring them out and I’ll take you where the action is.”

The driver started up. He had the news on. Kirby asked him to turn up the volume. “... were involved in the search for Kirby Winter and Wilma Farnham when police traced a shipment of Winter’s personal possessions to the yacht. Prompt action by area firefighting units prevented serious damage to the luxury vessel. The scene of the fire looked like attempted arson, but the three crew members aboard at the time can shed no light on the matter. The stateroom was occupied by Betsy Alden, actress niece of Mrs. O’Rourke, and as yet the police have been unable to locate either Miss Alden or Mrs. O’Rourke. While the fire was being brought under control, Joseph Locordolos, owner of the Glorianna , was being apprehended in a nearby cocktail lounge. Locordolos, severely battered and lacerated by the women upon whom he was forcing his attentions, and in a semi-hysterical condition, was booked for assault, exposure and lewd behavior, and is reported as not yet being in condition to be questioned regarding the two women who were aboard or the origin of the fire.

“A further element of mystery concerns the other two members of the crew of the Glorianna , Rene Bichat and Raoul Feron, who were apprehended earlier today in the Hallandale home of Professor Wellerly of Florida Eastern. When Metro police went to the house in response to an anonymous phone tip, they found considerable damage to the house and found the two seamen in the shuttered living room, bound hand and foot. The two men have refused to explain their presence there and are being held.

“Evidence collected on the scene indicates Wilma Farnham may have been hiding out in the Wellerly home. Professor Wellerly and his family are in Europe, and he is a friend of Roger Farnham, Miss Farnham’s brother, who denies any knowledge of his sister’s whereabouts.

“Another factor, as yet unexplained, was the presence of a sports car behind the Wellerly residence, registered in the name of Bonny Lee Beaumont, a night club entertainer now working in the Greater Miami area. As yet police have been unable to contact Miss Beaumont.

“It is now believed that there was a closer connection between the people aboard the Glorianna and Kirby Winter and the Farnham woman than was first presumed. But an aura of mystery thickens around the millions embezzled from the estate of the late Omar Krepps.”

The news ended. The driver turned the radio down and said, “Why the hell do they have to make it sound so hard? This Winter had it all set up for his buddies to bring that Glory Annie here and take him off with his broad and the money. But it’s so much money and so much heat, everybody wants a bigger cut, so they start fighting among themselves and they screw up the whole deal for everybody. Why is that so hard to figure?”

“So where are they now?”

“Who knows, sport? This town has a million transient rooms, and there’s so many ways to get out of it, you can’t seal it off. Right? And there’s enough confusion going on, how can anybody find anybody? It’s like the whole town is going nuts. Beach riots, crazy traffic jams, people all over claiming they’re seeing spooks. What it is, it’s the humidity. It gets just to the right place and this town always starts to unravel. I seen it before.”

When they reached Rio’s, Kirby told the driver there would be no point in his waiting. The structure looked as though a pagoda had been mated with Mount Vernon, then boarded up and used as a proving ground for neon tubes. It sat in the middle of an asphalt field half full of cars. At intervals, a little worm of blue neon would appear way over on the left, out of total blackness. It would start to move across, picking up speed, picking up more width, additional colors until, when it reached the far right, it occupied the whole height of the building. Then it turned into a huge white waterfall. Then it said RIO’S — in red — big enough to drive a truck through the O. And, as it was shouting RIO’S, three banks of floodlights flicked on, one after the other, illuminating three plywood girls, thirty feet tall. The first one was a brunette labeled Perry Meson. The middle one was Bonny Lee. The third was a redhead disastrously named Pooty-Tat O’Shaugnessy. They were all smiling. They were bare, except for the strategic placement of their name signs. They were all of a height, standing elbow to elbow, reproduced by some color photomural process, and the six breasts aligned, big as bushel baskets, had a fearsome implausibility which induced, rather than lust, a feeling of inadequacy. This peculiar vision of his love gave Kirby a feeling of petulance and indignation, like a small boy discovering he is expected to share his candied apple with the entire first grade. It was but a minor compensation to note that the incredible Pooty-Tat made the other two look immature. RIO’S flickered off and the lighted cutouts lingered another two seconds. The building was in total darkness for a moment and then the little blue worm reappeared.

When he hauled the heavy door open, he was assailed by a blast of noise so tangible he wondered that it did not push him back out. He went through the hat check foyer without relinquishing funny hat or cane, and moved into the smoky gloom. Waiters pounced, scurried, slid through tiny spaces between the shadowy tables. Everyone seemed to be yelling to be heard over the brass din of a small and exceptionally noisy group of musicians on a cantilevered shelf playing an accelerated version of “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes,” with the compulsive, crashing beat of a twist number. A lot of people seemed to be yelling “Go!” in time to the beat. At the far end of the large room, on a small platform stage, bathed in a hot pink spotlight stood Miss Pooty-Tat O’Shaugnessy wearing nought but a drowsy smile, a sequined G-string and two little silk tassels. She had her fingers laced at the nape of her neck and seemed totally relaxed, except that one little red tassel was revolving clockwise, the other counterclockwise, each completing one revolution exactly on the smashing beat.

“Parm me!” a waiter snarled and shoved Kirby out of his trance. He went to the crowded bar and found a four-inch space between two beefy men. The service was fast, the drink small, weak and expensive. When the harried bartender brought his change, Kirby tried to ask when Bonny Lee would be on, but the barman was gone before he could get the words out. At the final thump of the last bar, Pooty-Tat added a bump to the other activities, and the pink spot went off.

“She ain’t on tonight,” one of the beefy men said.

“Cop trouble, somebody said,” the other man said.

“How come?” the first man said.

“Her car got used on a B and E that went sour and they made her through the plates, but she should have showed and said it was borrowed. You fade and they nail you every time, like accessory.”

When the bartender started to snatch Kirby’s empty glass, Kirby grabbed him by the wrist and said, “How can I get in touch with Bonny Lee?”

The man yanked himself free and said, “Try a classified ad, doll.”

Five minutes later, as Kirby was wondering what to try next, there was a tap on his shoulder. He turned and saw an old waiter with a face like a tired bulldog. The waiter moved away, giving a little jerk of his head for Kirby to follow him. Ten feet from the bar the waiter stopped.

“I play a little game, okay? Like I say a front name and you give me the rest of it, okay? Bernie?”