Black Night Falling (6 page)

I set off looking for Maxine, desperate to track down the Borland woman through her. The Star-Vue Hotel was three blocks down, the neon sign out front advertising ‘Entertainment and Fine Food’, same as most all the other places around Duke’s. I saw little evidence of it inside.
Entertainment
seemed to be the agreed-upon byword for what was offered in the upstairs rooms.

It was early evening when I walked in, and there was only a thin crowd inside. They looked young and, by their dress, local, the tourists keeping to the glitzy joints up on Bathhouse Row; this strip was for hometown drinkers and gamblers. I wondered if Robinson had managed to blend in here, or if he just thought he had. If he was making waves without realising it, he would have been an easy target – no protection in a false name.

The downstairs of the Star-Vue was little more than a dive bar, a cut below even Duke’s. The bartender was a kid playing at being tough, the pockmarks on his face undermining the act.

‘I’m looking for Maxine, know where I can find her?’

‘Whores are upstairs.’

I held his gaze for a moment longer than he was comfortable with. ‘Watch your mouth.’

The staircase was in the far corner of the room, climbing back towards the front of the building. I crossed over to it. At the top, a heavy in a threadbare suit and creased shirt stood in front of a black door. He wasn’t trying hard to hide the bulge in the left breast of his suit coat – packing some kind of heat.

‘Money up front, friend. Ten dollars.’

‘I just want to talk. Looking for a girl named Maxine.’

‘What you do through the door is your business. Whether you get through the door is mine. Ten bucks.’

I reached for my wallet and pulled out two fives, my cash reserves almost shot. The man handed me a poker chip with a Red Indian’s head on it, and pulled the door open for me to step inside.

Through the doorway was a small waiting room decorated with red floral wallpaper and matching carpet that had once been plush. There were two couches set around a low coffee table. One was occupied by a man in a suit, his necktie pulled away from his collar, and he looked away when I entered. Two doors led off from the room. There were no women in sight.

I stayed standing and took a spot against the near wall, eyes moving between the doors, wondering if I should let myself in. I was still thinking on it when the one to my left opened, and a young woman in a silk dressing gown came out. She had brown hair, worn in victory rolls at the front and grazing her shoulders at the back. The man on the couch stood and handed over his poker chip without being asked – not new to this. She took him by the arm and led him towards the door.

I called out to her. ‘Miss, I’m looking for Maxine . . .’

She carried on through the doorway, and as she closed it, said over her shoulder, ‘Your turn next, hon.’

Then she was gone and I was alone in the room again. I couldn’t tell from her appearance or reaction if she was Maxine. I already felt dirty from a night trawling through the gutter of Hot Springs, and now it felt like I’d slipped down the drain. It was getting on top of me, being in that room, and I thought about throwing doors open and kicking out the degenerates so I could talk to Maxine and get the hell away from there. The thought of the minder outside, and the piece inside his jacket, made me hold steady. My hand was in my pocket, turning the poker chip in circles.

Finally the other door opened and the John took his leave – red-faced, his collar unbuttoned and tie loosened. He didn’t look at me as he passed. I stepped to the middle of the antechamber and waited for the woman inside to come out.

The woman appeared. She wore a thin lick of makeup on her face that looked like it had been slapped on in haste. I held out the poker chip. ‘Maxine?’

She hesitated as she took it from me. ‘You been here before, soldier? Don’t remember your face.’

I shook my head. ‘I just want to talk to you.’

Her eyes flicked to the main door, as if talking would bring the heavy outside down on her. Then she jutted her hip out, one hand on it, trying to look sassy again. ‘Sure, we can start with some talk. Come on in.’

I followed her into the small room, hoping she’d be more likely to spill in the confines of whatever privacy it afforded. The flop was only just big enough to fit a bed and a small dressing table; it smelled of coupling and sweat, under a spritz of too-sweet perfume.

The woman reached past me when I didn’t shut the door. ‘You born in a barn?’ She turned her back and started to take her robe off.

‘Keep it on. Please.’

She turned to me again. ‘Oh, right, talking. Look, it’s your dime, but so you know, you gotta be out in fifteen minutes, or—’

‘I’ll be out in one. I’m looking for someone. Ella Borland.’

She stopped moving, hands clutching her robe over her shoulders. She studied my face, saying nothing, and I wondered what she was weighing up. The silence held a beat too long, then she turned it back on me. ‘What do you want her for?’

I suddenly felt like Borland might be within my reach. ‘A friend of mine spent some time with her. He died a few days ago, before I could get here. I wanted to talk to her about him.’

‘You sure like your talking, huh?’

The line brought an unexpected smile to my face. ‘Beats fighting.’

Maxine stepped over to the mirror on top of the dresser and examined her own reflection. She picked up a puff and powdered her cheeks with rouge. ‘Sorry about your friend. How’d he die?’

I had the feeling like I was being tested, and a wrong answer would see me back at square one. ‘In a fire.’

She put the powder down. ‘That so? Had a fire not too far from here a few nights back.’

‘That’s where he died.’

‘Huh.’

I stared at her reflection, her face filling the small mirror. It was obvious she was keeping some card close to her chest, so I said nothing, let her take the lead.

She turned around to face me again. ‘Where you from, mister?’

‘California. Los Angeles.’

‘First time in Hot Springs?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Figures. You don’t know how it goes here.’

I put my hands in my pockets. ‘I’m starting to get the picture.’

She shook her head. ‘I have my doubts about that.’ She sat on the edge of the bed and chewed the nail on her little finger. ‘You wouldn’t be in here asking for Ella if you did. You know who she works for now?’

‘I’m all ears.’

She gave a nervous laugh and shook her head. ‘No, you look like a good sort, so I ain’t about to do that to you.’ She stood up, too close to me now in the cramped room, the scent of her perfume overpowering. ‘Give me your number and I’ll tell Ella you’re looking for her. She decides she wants to talk to you, she’ll holler.’

I ran my hand over my mouth. ‘I appreciate it, but I’m short on time. If you could see your way to telling me where I can find her—’

‘Mister, I’m looking out for you here. If I liked you less, I’d do exactly what you’re asking.’

She was sure in her tone; it felt like the end of the road. I wrote my name on a piece of paper, along with that of the Mountain Motor Court. ‘Ask her if she’d leave a message for me at the desk if I’m not there.’

She took it and slipped it in her clutch beside the dresser.

‘Tell Miss Borland my friend’s name was Jimmy. Tell her—’ I froze up, blindsided by the image of Robinson in that room again. Except this time he was awake, flames all around him, the heat peeling the skin right from his face. He was screaming, the kind of terror only a man facing death knows. The Robinson I saw in my imagination was the one I’d uncovered only at the end in Texarkana – the scared man who’d been running from his fear too long but saw it catch him up anyway. In that moment, I was certain that he’d been trying to do some good here and that someone had killed him for it. I wanted to convey that scene to Maxine, get her to tell it to Ella Borland exactly as I saw it, an appeal to her better angels, but the words were bitter and mangled in my throat and made me feel like I was choking. I couldn’t get them out.

‘Mister?’

I stepped back from her, startled. ‘Just ask her to call me. Please.’

She nodded. ‘Sure, I’ll ask.’

‘There’s one other thing.’

‘There always is with your type.’

I took the photograph from my pocket. ‘Do you happen to know this woman?’

She took it from me and frowned. ‘She’s a little plain Jane for my crowd. Sorry . . .’ She handed it back, and when I took it, she reached for the button of my suit jacket, twisting it. ‘I’ll talk to Ella for you. It’s not right what happened to that man.’

A vein in my wrist pulsed. ‘What do you mean? It was an accident.’

‘You wouldn’t be here if you believed that.’

‘If there’s something you can tell me . . .’

‘I don’t know anything, I just got eyes and a brain. And even if I did have information, I wouldn’t tell you. This isn’t our town.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

She let go of the button. ‘Ella wants to speak to you, that’s her choice.’

I stared at her a moment, weighing whether to push it, but all I saw was a girl with more bravado than experience. I turned to go.

She touched my arm. ‘Mister – you already paid, don’t you want to get your money’s worth?’

I stopped and looked at her. She glanced to the door and back to me, a nervous look in her eyes, as though she’d be in trouble with the man outside if she let me go without disturbing the sheets. I shook my head, almost apologetic. ‘That’s not me, sister.’

It was past nine when I arrived back at the Mountain Motor Court that night – fourteen straight hours spent scrapping for information on Robinson, with little to show for it. I stopped at the office to check for a message from Ella Borland. It was too soon, but I did it anyway, got zip.

Back in my room, I took my suit off and laid it out on a chair, caught a whiff of cigarettes and liquor coming from it – like the lingering stink of a party I hadn’t been invited to. I was weary, but my mind was still running hard. I sat on the floor in front of the uneven piles I’d made of Robinson’s papers, and started to read. The material was as indecipherable as earlier, and frustration set in fast. My thoughts wandered – to Robinson, and what he’d been doing in Hot Springs, and how far I was willing to take his fight when I wasn’t even certain what the cause was. I thought about the woman in the print dress, and how he came to be investigating her murder, and Ella Borland and what she might be able to tell me – if she made contact.

When all of that fell away, I was left with thoughts of Lizzie. I worried I’d already driven a wedge between us by coming here, and that notion scared me – the damage I might have done to my marriage, and for god only knew what reason. I’d promised to go home if I had nothing inside of forty-eight hours – but that was already out of the question. I worried how she’d react when I blew my own deadline, and I wanted to kick myself for making a promise I knew I couldn’t keep.

I stared at the papers, the words mashing into one, and a new face came into my head – Maxine’s. I remembered her offer before I’d left, about getting my money’s worth, and the way it had made me pity her. I pictured her in that dingy room, so scared of whoever ran the joint as to be inured to selling her body to any man with enough coin. Hot Springs flaunted itself as a good-time town, a place anyone could get their kicks; that reputation came with a price, and it was exacted on young women like Maxine. From what I’d seen, it wasn’t one worth paying.

I put the papers aside and went to the bathroom. As I touched the doorknob, I heard a noise outside. A scraping sound on the wall. I stopped still.

I looked to the back window, saw movement in the crack between the drapes. Sudden, like someone ducking out of sight. I glanced around the room, looking for a weapon – nothing. I darted over and pressed my face to the glass. To the right I saw a dark shape scrambling away through the trees. I felt my skin go drum-tight around my bones.

I hesitated, shallow breaths fogging on the pane. The shape disappeared from view and the thought of not knowing sparked me to action. I ran to the door and threw it open, then pelted all the way across the parking lot, jagged stones under my bare feet. I reached the street and looked left. There was a pickup parked on the verge two hundred yards away, its lights on. I started sprinting towards it. As I came nearer, I could make out a man on the driver’s side. He glanced back, saw me, and leaned across to throw the passenger door open. When I was thirty yards away, a man stumbled out from the trees behind the motel, running from the direction of the back of my room. He threw himself into the pickup. The driver gunned the engine and the truck took off, slamming the door shut. I kept going, chasing, straining to get the plate, but in a second they were gone.

I stopped and doubled over, panting with my hands on my knees. My feet were ripped to shreds, the asphalt warm against my bare skin. I was in the middle of the road, everything around me shaking and still at the same time.

No sleep came. Nervous hours spent staring at the shadows on the ceiling, listening for noises outside, waiting for dawn.

When morning showed up, I got out of there early as I could and drove Robinson’s car to the Arlington so I could call Clyde Dinsmore at the
Recorder
and pay too much for eggs and coffee. I got the food first; I had no appetite, but expected another long day. I tried to shut out the incident the night before and focus only on Robinson. It was easier said than done.

The hotel lobby was busy again, breakfast service in full swing. As I ate my food, my eyes set upon the table in the far corner, drawn by the racket the men around it were making. I watched the occupants. The table was in its own small section, on a platform that raised it a little above the others. There were five men, but I straightaway zeroed on one – the same man I’d seen the time before, strolling through the lobby. The same familiar face.

He was far enough away not to notice me looking. The other men wore suits, two of them smoking cigars, but he was sporting golf attire – a cream-coloured shirt and beige slacks, two-tone brogues on his feet. He was the only one not talking, instead buttering a piece of toast, glancing up to smile every now and then when one of the others cracked wise. It was a cautious smile, isolated from the rest of his expression. He seemed alert, although not on edge, regarding the other men the way a politician does at a fundraising drive.

I left my food half-finished and rounded the edge of the restaurant to get a better view, being careful not to be caught staring. I took up a spot near the bar that afforded me a good look at his face and tried hard to place it. I thought back to Texarkana, ran through lists of the people I’d encountered there – cops, reporters, victims. No one made the nut.

I buttonholed a passing bellhop.

‘Sir?’

‘Who’s the gentleman at that raised table?’ I indicated with my thumb.

‘Do you mean Mr Tindall’s table, sir?’

Tindall. The name and the face came back to me all at once. ‘Tindall as in William Tindall?’

The bellman scratched his wrist. ‘Yes, sir.’

I nodded to send him on his way, my eyes locked on the man now. William Tindall. Not from Texarkana. A name I knew from back in New York – one of the most powerful racketeers the city had known. A bootlegging kingpin from twenty years back, with an empire that had been rumoured to extend into real estate, boxing, breweries and numbers. His public face was boss of the Cotton Club – the Harlem nightspot that brought black jazz talent to white crowds. His reputation in the underworld was that of a vicious mobster who went by the handle ‘Bill the Killer’, who’d toughed-out ten years in Sing Sing on a manslaughter beef.

And now he was taking breakfast a few yards from me. In a town where gambling and prostitution flourished.

I closed my eyes, not sure what it all meant. Then I opened them again and stepped away from the bar, glancing back at Tindall’s table one more time. The man next to him had the attention of the group, animated, recounting a story of some kind and looking over at Tindall every few moments as if to check he was getting his approval. Tindall was stirring his drink with a spoon, paying the man just enough attention so as not to appear impolite.

I went to the telephone kiosks and called Dinsmore, on the pretext of chasing up the fire department report. I doubted he’d have it yet – and that assuming he hadn’t just paid lip service to the request so as to get me off his back – but I wanted him to know I wasn’t going away. I couldn’t believe three murders could go unnoticed, even in a place like this, and I had the feeling he was snowing me.

Turned out it was a wasted nickel; Dinsmore hadn’t made it to his desk yet, and his colleague didn’t know what time he was expected. I held the receiver after I put it in the cradle, thinking about my next play. I called the desk at the Mountain Motor Court, eager to see if Ella Borland had made contact. The proprietor answered, but before I could say anything, he started asking about my plans.

‘You fixing to check out tomorrow?’

I had a spare nickel in my hand, started tapping it against the telephone casing. Thoughts of money nagged at the back of my mind; the trip was going to leave me flat broke. ‘I haven’t decided yet. I’ll come by the office later on and we’ll straighten things out.’

He cleared his throat. ‘All right. But if you want to stay on, each night is payable in advance. House rules.’

‘I understand.’ I closed my eyes, feeling as if the decision was going to be made for me. I had enough to pay my airfare back to California, but at this rate, I’d have to dip into that just to stay, and pride wouldn’t let me call Acheson to ask for an advance on my salary. ‘I was calling to see if you have any messages for me.’

‘Yes, sir. Hold a minute till I find it.’ There was a rustling sound as though he was shuffling papers around the desk. ‘One for you, called just a few moments ago. Dame by the name of Borland. Didn’t leave nothing but a telephone number—’

I snatched a pen out of my pocket. ‘What is it, please?’

He read the number out to me and I thanked him and hung up. I slotted the nickel I had in my hand into the phone and dialled, pressing the receiver to my ear as if it would make her pick up faster.

Instead, a man answered. I could hear voices in the background – people in conversation. I asked for Ella Borland and the man didn’t respond. It was a second or two before I realised he’d gone to get her.

Then a new voice came on the line.

‘Ella Borland speaking.’ Husky but soft. Her accent more Texas than Arkansas.

‘Miss Borland, this is Charlie Yates. Thank you for returning my call.’

‘Mr Yates . . . you sent me a message. Maxine told me. What is it you think I can do for you?’

‘I think we know someone in common – Jimmy Clark.’

She hesitated. ‘May I ask what this is about?’

‘Jimmy died a few days ago, were you aware of that?’

Her tone hardened. ‘What’s the meaning of this?’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to come off blunt. Jimmy was a friend of mine, and I want to know what happened to him. I wondered if you could help me.’

‘Are you a policeman, Mr Yates?’

‘No, nothing like that, ma’am, I’m a reporter. We worked together some.’

‘A reporter.’ She said it to herself and then was silent a few seconds. I couldn’t get a read on what she was thinking. ‘I heard about Jimmy, it upset me a lot.’

‘Can I ask how you came to know him?’

‘We were acquaintances.’ At first I thought she was going to say something more, but she held her tongue.

‘The reason I’m calling is I was hoping you could shed some light on what he was doing here. Jimmy asked me to come to Hot Springs to help him, but by the time I got here, he was dead.’

‘Oh, I’m— That’s awful for you. I’m sorry, Mr Yates, truly.’ The emotion in her voice sounded genuine, but she was still guarded.

‘He only told me a few details about what he was working on because he didn’t want to discuss it over the telephone—’

‘He was like that. Old fashioned.’ For the first time, there was a hint of fondness in her voice.

‘So if there’s anything you can tell me, I’d be in your debt.’

The line went quiet, and then she drew in a long breath. Some kind of commotion kicked up across from me, the sound of a plate smashing on the floor. I turned away from the din just as she started to speak again.

‘A friend of mine was killed some months back and Jimmy—’ Her voice trembled and she took a moment to compose herself. ‘I’m sorry, it’s still difficult for me to talk about this. Jimmy was looking into it.’

My skin prickled – on the verge of something now. ‘What was your friend’s name, ma’am?’

‘Jeanette Runnels. Jeannie.’

I scribbled it down awkwardly, pinning my notebook to the wall and writing with the same hand.

‘Jimmy came to me some months ago and said he was writing a story about her. He wanted my help and I obliged, and we became friendly over the course of those conversations.’

‘My condolences on your loss, ma’am. Both losses.’ A rush of questions came to me, but I was mindful of not pushing so hard that I scared her away. ‘Can I ask when you last saw Jimmy?’

She thought about it, then said, ‘Monday, I think.’

‘How did he seem to you?’

‘You know what he was like – he could be up one minute and down the next. He was always that way.’

‘Did he seem troubled at all?’

She gave a rueful laugh, no humour in it. ‘Always. But no more so than usual.’

‘Do you know if he had any enemies here? I know Jimmy could rub people wrong.’

‘None that I know of. If you’ll allow, why are you asking me this, Mr Yates?’

I thought about how to respond. ‘I’m trying to know his frame of mind before he died.’

‘Forgive me, but that sounds a little hollow.’

‘Pardon me?’

‘I was told his death was an accident, but unless I’m mistaken, you have doubts that it was.’

I kept my tone even, surprised at how perceptive she was. ‘I have some questions I’d like answered, that’s all. Would you consider meeting with me in town? I don’t want to cause you upset, but I’d like to ask you some more about Jimmy.’

‘What kind of questions? Are you suggesting I was involved in his death?’

‘What? No, not at all. That’s not what I meant.’ The thought had never occurred to me, but I wondered now if it should have. ‘I have questions about whether the fire was an accident. Until I figure out how he spent his time here, I can’t know if someone might’ve had cause to do him harm.’ I dropped another coin in the slot. ‘Please, ma’am.’

I heard her light a cigarette. ‘But I don’t know anything. I don’t see how I can be of any help to you.’

‘Then I’ll be out of your hair in ten minutes. Spare me that, at least.’

She took a drag. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Yates. I spent a lot of time raking over things for Jimmy, I don’t think I can put myself through that again.’

‘Wait. Just let me—’

‘I’m sorry. Goodbye.’ The line went dead.

I stared at the receiver, feeling uncertain. The conversation was one-sided – it felt as though I’d given up too much information without getting anything in return. Then I took a step back from it, realised I was being an ass. The woman didn’t know me from a hole in the ground, and I was asking her to dish about two dead people she knew. How else was she supposed to react?

I looked at the notebook in my hand again. The name she’d given me, Jeannie Runnels – a place to start, but something more than that: a wrong assumption. I turned back a page and looked at the recurring initials I’d jotted down from Robinson’s notes.
J.R.
– what I’d assumed to denote
Jimmy Robinson
, but could just as surely be
Jeannie Runnels
.

Both Dinsmore and Layfield had told me there were no open murders Robinson could have been investigating. I couldn’t see how they could both lie or make the same mistake, and it made me suspicious as hell.

The girl at the front desk of the
Recorder
didn’t recognise me from the day before, but she went to summon Dinsmore anyway. He showed no surprise when he came through the door and greeted me, and I wondered if he knew I’d be back. ‘More questions?’

‘I’ve got a name for you, maybe the murder my friend was working on.’

‘Shoot.’

‘Jeanette Runnels. Seems like she went by Jeannie, too.’

‘Runnels? Yeah, I remember that one. Strangled four or five months back.’ I felt my blood rising at the man’s barefaced cheek. I swallowed, tried to keep my temper in check and let him talk. ‘Horrible story. They found her in her bedroom – son of a bitch used her own nylons to garrotte her.’ He scratched his cheek. ‘Hell, what was the other girl’s name . . . ?’

‘What other girl?’

He held his hand up, gesturing to give him a minute, his head tilted back to the ceiling. I waited, fighting to keep a lid on my temper. ‘Bess something, like the president’s wife – some of her regulars called her the First Lady on account of it.’

‘“Regulars” – you’re talking about a working girl?’

He snapped his fingers. ‘Prescott, that’s it. Bess Prescott.’ He turned his gaze to me again. ‘Same thing happened to her about six weeks later. Strangled in her own home, the same perp. Police chalked it up to some manner of sex maniac.’

‘Was Jeannie Runnels a working girl as well?’

‘Sure. Right out of the gate, the cops figured they were looking for one of their Johns, someone they had in common, but you start turning over those stones in this town and a lot of folk get uncomfortable real fast. That’s why the police didn’t spend a whole heap of time investigating; that and the fact it was a couple dead whores, so who cares, right?’ I felt my fists clench up. He saw it and spread his hands. ‘I’m not saying that, you understand – just telling you what the prevailing thinking was.’

I closed my eyes, the picture coming clear now. Two dead working girls – embarrassment looming for anyone who’d paid for their services if the cops started knocking on doors. Family men with wives. Maybe men with influence. It was a bum deal for the dead women, but easier all around just to hush it up and move on. Made me sick to my stomach. I looked at him again. ‘Who was the third?’

‘The third what?’

It felt like he was still trying to stall me, my patience about shot now. ‘The third victim, Dinsmore. My friend told me before he died there were three murders.’

He looked puzzled. ‘That’s what I was going to ask you about. I remember you telling me that, but there were only two.’

I pointed at his chest. ‘Quit messing with me. Yesterday you said there weren’t any murders, now you’re telling me there’re only two – what game are you playing?’

He took a step back, a look of surprise on his face. ‘Hold on now, Jack. You’re the one told me your friend was investigating these murders.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean? Why didn’t you tell me—’

‘They got the man that did it.’ His face was red with exasperation, veins showing in his neck. ‘Why the hell was your friend investigating a case that was already solved?’