Ed Lacy - Blonde Bait

The whole thing didn't make a bit of sense. This Fed knew damn well I hadn't kneed him by “accident.” He could have hustled me down to the nearest jail and beat my brains out—yet he'd been almost polite to me. Why?

I kept chewing it around in my mind and all I came up with was a headache. Even my cigar tasted bad. The radio disc jockey said it was 2:00 A.M. I had to do something beside sitting on my rusty. Suppose Rose was hiding someplace on the beach, waiting for me—and freezing for almost two hours now? But if I left the hotel, how could she contact me? What if I went to the police, loud-talked them—or the Federal agent here, into giving me the whole story of why this joker had gone for his gun on Rose? Or would that bring the house down on us?

Hell, I was wasting time sitting here like a silly jerk.

Two hours gone. Rose could be dead by now or.... No point in losing my head. Rose would figure I'd had to give them the phony Anderson handle and this hotel... and that the place was probably crawling with dicks. But at least she could phone me and say... Say what? I was a fool: if they were watching the joint they were certainly keeping an ear on the switchboard.

I lifted the phone from its cradle to see if it was working. It was. Did a tapped phone sound any different? I saw several phonebooks and it suddenly came to me we'd been so smug we hadn't even checked the Atlantic City book for those names. I went through the book. Nothing. There was a Philly book and a thick New York City one, too.

For lack of anything better to do I checked the Philly book. No William Sour or Gootsrat. Or in the New York directory either. To kill time I went through all the G's and S's in both books. In New York there was a William Saure on West 113th Street and a Willy Sowor on Cork Avenue. I felt excited for a moment—either of them might be our boy and a lead to Rose. But the lonely hotel room gave me the blues again. The devil with whether Rose's story was true or not— where was Rose! Had big boy picked her up? Could she be waiting for me near the night club?

The thing sticking in my mind was—why had Rose told me she was going to the ladies room and skipped out instead? Leaving her coat didn't make sense. If she was going to run, why didn't she tell me so? Didn't Rose trust me any longer? Had she really been using me all this time? Or had she been on her way to the powder room when she saw big boy come after her, and decided to flee on the spur of the moment? But she'd told me to say I'd just picked her up. And one thing I couldn't doubt: Rose had been terrified.

At 3:00 A. M. I couldn't sit any longer. I slipped the desk clerk a five buck bill as I told him, “If Mrs. Anderson phones, or when she returns, tell her I'll either call or be back within an hour. She's to wait or leave a message.”

I knew how it sounded. He let me have a small, understanding smile, as he said, “Of course, Mr. Anderson.”

I was so edgy I wanted to smack the smirk off his thin face. But playing the great detective I returned his jerky grin, added, “I... er... got a big bagged tonight and she turned huffy.”

“She'll get over it,” Mr. Lonelyheart said smugly.

“I'm going out for some fresh air. Give her message, if she phones.”

I walked through the deserted streets to the night club. It was closed and through the glass door I saw a young fellow in old army fatigue clothes starting to clean up. By twisting my neck I could also see the manager at the bar, checking the cash with the bouncer and barkeep. I circled the block slowly, looking for any place where Rose might be hiding. I also kept looking over my shoulder to see if I was being tailed. I tried thinking of a story in case I ran into the local cop, but my mind wouldn't come up with anything. There was a big old house with a glass enclosed porch and a TOURIST sign over the doorway, around the corner from the club. The place was completely dark. I rang the bell a few times.

After a couple of minutes a light snapped on inside and a moment later a guy in an old-fashioned nightgown came to the door. He was about thirty-five and still half-asleep. Long, stringy dark hair seemed to be sticking straight up from his head and the bony legs at the other end of the nightgown were shaking with cold. He was an odd looking guy with a drawn face and a long lantern jaw. He asked, “You ring my bell?”

“Did a tall woman check in here around midnight?”

He blinked and rubbed his arms against his sides. “Nobody has checked in here all month, officer.”

“I'm not a cop. Are you sure...?”

“Geez. You got me out of my bed to ask that? I ought to bust you one on your nose!”

“Skip the tough chatter, you're not built for it,” I said, waving another five dollar bill. “Here, buy yourself some salt water taffy. Nobody checked in at any time tonight?”

He opened the door wide enough to take the money. “I don't know if this is worth getting up for. We ain't had a guest in months. Summertime is when we get people.” He held the bill up to his face, saw it was a five spot. “Anything else?”

“Forget it and sleep warm,” I said, turning away. One thing: in “detective” work, flashing money was better than showing a badge.

I went around the block in the opposite direction and even poked under the boardwalk. I sat on some stone steps and shook the sand out of my shoes, watching the waves breaking, the crests foamy clean and white in the darkness. Away out I saw the dim lights of a ship, a big one. The ocean seemed so safe. I cursed myself for ever being stupid enough to leave the islands, for not realizing we had life in the bag.

I walked back to the club. There was only a single light deep inside the place. I banged on the glass door with a coin. It made an awful racket. After a moment the porter in the army fatigues came up and asked through the door what I wanted. I said I'd lost something in the club. He told me to come back tomorrow afternoon. Pressing two ten dollar bills against the door, I said, “I want to look for it now.”

He hesitated. He had a worn RANGER shoulder patch on his fatigue jacket. It seemed wrong for him to be working as a porter. He also had a sort of holster full of tools hanging from the back of his belt. He took out a big wrench as he unlocked the door with his left hand, told me, “Make it quick, I've a lot of work ahead of me. What did you lose, a lighter?”

“No, a girl,” I said, stepping inside. The sight of my face worried him.

Backing away he asked, “You the guy who caused the roughhouse tonight?”

“Roughhouse?” I repeated, talking fast. “Buddy, my girl ran out on me. She isn't at her hotel and she left her coat here. I think she might be hiding around in the club, in the building. All I want is to make sure she isn't here.”

“And if you find her here, then what? I don't want any trouble.”

A wild feeling of joy raced through me: Rose was here! “Buddy, she wasn't running from me. I think she saw her husband and took a powder. I'm only trying to help her.”

I added another ten to the two in my mitt. He shook his head. Up close I saw he was older than I'd first thought. I told him, “Buddy, if I was here for trouble do you think that wrench would stop me? I worked with a Ranger team in Italy so I know you're tough. But look at my puss. I have a big edge on you in muscle and experience. Believe me: I'm only a guy hunting for a girl, afraid she's in trouble.”

“I'll chance it and believe you. Walk ahead of me, into the club.”

There was a single light on a stand in the center of the small stage. It was a big bulb but didn't seem to give out much light—the club looked smaller than I'd imagined, trashy and drab now. Two waxing machines stood on the tiny dance floor and with the chairs turned upside down on the tables, the joint seemed a weird forest of plain chair legs. The porter said, “Wait here while I get my keys,” and stepped behind the bar. He took something out of a drawer. It was a very black .45. He said evenly, “Maybe you're telling the truth, maybe not. I have a permit for this and know how to use it. So don't fool around.”