Over Her Dear Body (11 page)

Nobody else was in sight except the desk man. Jimmy. He said to me, “It sounded like the end of the world.”

“It almost was. Give me my key. Quick.”

He scooted behind the desk, saying, “What happened?”

“Somebody shot at me.”

“Again?”

“Yeah, again.” It has happened before.

He looked me over as he handed me the key, and started to snicker for the first time, but swallowed it fast. I raced up the stairs with Elaine and to my apartment. Nobody was waiting for me this time. We went inside, I shut and locked the door, then leaned back against it and closed my eyes for a moment. There was a kind of quivering sensation all over my skin, as if the cells itched and were scratching each other. I took a couple of deep breaths and opened my eyes.

And then everything was all right again. Elaine stood about a foot from me, looking at me soberly. She was now as she'd been on the
Srinagar,
and for a few moments here in my apartment in the early morning. At this moment she had never looked more beautiful; at this moment, no one had ever looked more beautiful.

She spoke slowly, and her voice was again the throbbingly lovely, warmly whispering sound it had been when I'd first heard her speak. “Something happened to me out there, Shell. When—they shot at you. For a moment I thought you were going to be killed. And I...”

She paused, looking up at me. Her big soft eyes, those dark Indian eyes, looked deep into my own eyes, then fell to my lips. “...I thought my heart would stop.”

“Elaine—”

She raised her hand, pressed one finger against my lips. Perhaps she meant to speak, and changed her mind. I don't know. But I know her finger slid from my lips and her hand caressed my cheek, and then my arms went around her and she was pressed against me. She raised her face, eyes closing and lips parting as I caught her mouth with mine.

We stood there, as if our bodies had fused together, mouths clinging, my hands tight against her back, her fingers curling behind my head. It was a moment like the one we'd shared this morning when I'd held her to me, feeling the surge of warmth, of fire in her, feeling the dark hair brush my face and knowing the sweet perfume of her—but more this time, much more.

When our mouths parted she rubbed my face with hers and spoke in a rushing whisper, her eyes still closed, spoke with lips like honey and words like wine. More than the closeness of our bodies, more than caresses of our lips, there was an extreme tension and excitement between us that must have been part of what had happened minutes ago in the street, the shots and violence and nearness of death. Perhaps at no other time would our being together like this have been so violent, so supercharged with emotion and a kind of savagery. But whatever the reason, that's the way it was.

When our lips parted I lifted her in my arms and carried her through the apartment into the bedroom. I lowered her gently to the bed, and her mouth found mine before I let her go. When she pushed me away, her lids were heavy and her eyes seemed almost dull, but burning from something inside her. She reached for the top button on her white blouse, fumbled with it and moved her fingers to the next. In a moment she pulled the blouse from her shoulders, pulled it completely free, then raised her body slightly, hands going to her back and freeing the clasp of her brassiere.

“Elaine,” I said. My voice was tight in my throat. “I—”

She stopped me, speaking almost calmly, but with a thread of urgency in her tone. “No, don't say anything, Shell. No ... promises, no avowals. Don't say a word.”

While I stood silently at the edge of the bed, looking down at her, she undressed. She pulled the brassiere from the firm globes of her breasts, slid the dark skirt free of her hips and whitely gleaming thighs and rounded calves, dropped it in a crumpled heap to the floor.

In a moment, her wonderful body bare, she rested her head against the pillow, lips parted, breathing heavily through her mouth. She dropped her arms to her sides and closed the heavy lids over her dark eyes, motionless except for the deep rise and fall of her breasts.

Then she was in my arms, and it was again as though our flesh fused into one flesh, our mouths into one, as if our hearts were pressed together and pounding, pounding, like one great bursting heart.

I passed a lighted cigarette to Elaine and she sucked smoke into her lungs, expelled it and dragged deeply upon it again, without speaking.

We had been talking for a while, and the ashtray was nearly filled with ashes and the stubs of cigarettes. She raised her head and placed it on one white, smooth arm, looking at me in the dim light from the small lamp. It was dark now, and quiet.

She said smiling, “I made the remark once before, Shell. I thought my heart would stop.”

I grinned at her, pushed the tangled hair up from her forehead, but didn't say anything. Elaine had already told me why she'd been away from her apartment all day, after dropping Bunny off at her duplex. She'd turned the car radio on and heard what must have been the first or second news flash to reach the air about Belden's murder. And, as I'd known it would be, the one witness' story about seeing the “girl in white” run from the murder scene had been part of the news. After my remarks to Elaine about what the killers would do if they learned she might be able to identify them, she'd been afraid to stay in her apartment. After packing a small bag, she had checked into another apartment building, The Stuyvesant, under an assumed name, and tried to call me.

I'd been thinking about that, and now I asked her, “When did you come to the Spartan?”

“A little after noon. I couldn't stand it, waiting, phoning and phoning you. So I drove here. I knew you'd come here eventually. For hours I just sat in the car, then I went into the lobby and waited.” She stretched lazily and went on, “While I was there, watching, I saw that other car arrive. There were two men in the car, I noticed, but I didn't think anything of it then, even though they just sat there and waited. When I saw you drive up, I started down the steps, I don't know why I looked toward that other car, but I did, and saw the gun. So—I screamed.”

“Yeah, that one woke the birds in Beverly Hills. It's a good thing you did let out that blast, though. If you hadn't, I'd probably have looked in the wrong direction, or looked too late.”

“Shell.”

“Yeah?”

“What happened to your—your pants?”

That one caught me off guard. Somehow I hadn't gotten around to telling her about that. I said, “Honey, you might not believe it. I, uh, was swimming, see, and with—”

“Swimming? With your clothes on?”

“Yeah. But not as a lark. In fact, I'd just as soon not discuss it. Not ever.”

She was insistent, so I told her some of the story, hitting the high points. When I finished she merely said, “Well, if that's all it was, then all right,” and rather surprisingly let the matter drop.

At eight-thirty p.m., showered and dressed, we sat in the front room having drinks, a bourbon highball for me and a Scotch for Elaine. She'd told me all she could think of about her brother, but none of it seemed any help to me. Whatever Belden might have been up to, he hadn't told her about it.

I said, “Well, honey, I've got to leave.”

“For where?”

“The
Red Rooster
. I want to talk to Bunny—and her partner. I'm curious to know how he'll react when he sees me.”

“I'll get ready.”

“No, ma'am. You're not going; just me. There might be some fireworks, and—”

“Let's not argue about it. I'll just get ready, and we'll go.”

“No, it might be dangerous—”

“Shell, we've already discussed the broadcast about the woman seen running from the house where it happened this morning. We've no real reason to suspect that anybody knows I was the woman. So we won't worry about that.”

“But Joe Navarro might pull a fast—”

“He hasn't any reason to want to hurt me.”

“He might if he sees you with me. And no—”

“Why? There's nothing wrong with my hiring you. I'm your client. I want you to investigate my brother's death. It's the most natural thing in the world. Besides, I can't stay here in your apartment. You might even have some more ugly callers.”

“I suppose so. But I don't want you near me when I brace Navarro. He's an ugly character himself, and—”

“I'd be safer with you than anyplace else. So I'll just put a little powder on my nose, and we'll go to the
Red Rooster."

"Elaine, I won't have it, it's
out of the—”

“And don't think you're going to sneak off and see Bunny unless
I'm
with you. So stop arguing.”

"Who's arguing? It's settled. This is no arg—"

“Oh, I'll powder in the car. Let's go.”

We went.

Chapter Ten

The red rooster was a long low building on La Cienega just off Westmount Drive, part of Restaurant Row. It was built of stained redwood, and above the entrance was a bright bas-relief of a crowing rooster, looking so strong and virile and beautiful that wildly cackling hens should have been lined up for blocks.

I had phoned before leaving the Spartan and talked to the headwaiter, so we quickly got settled at a table away from ringside, where it was unlikely we'd be seen by the performers in the floor show and yet could see clearly ourselves. Elaine and I ordered drinks a minute or two before the show started at nine o'clock.

She reached across the table and patted my hand, saying, “Isn't this fun?”

“Grand.”

I had often spoken with more enthusiasm, but she smiled anyway as the lights dimmed. The band blared loudly in a fanfare, and from the left of the stage a toothily smiling emcee dressed in a dinner jacket, satin-striped trousers and black tie pranced onto stage center. A microphone had been set up there and he grabbed it with both hands and bent it toward the audience, leaning forward winningly, as if he were going to kiss everybody at ringside, boys and girls alike.

I didn't listen to his syrupy greeting, or the introduction to the opening act, but looked around the club. It was a pleasant place, with the smoky rose and beige tones and low ceiling that give such rooms a feeling of warm intimacy. I had been a bit provoked by Elaine's insistence that she was going to stick at my side through thick and thin, and so on, but I had to admit now that—even under the circumstances—it was quite enjoyable to be here in the
Red Rooster,
drinking a highball and sharing a table with the lovely Miss Emerson.

A gal was singing about a long-lost lover, and judging by her voice the singer had to be beautiful. I took a look. She was. Her lover was “gone ... gone ... go-one!” she shouted, as if hoping he'd hear her no matter how far he'd fled, and now we all knew what had chased him away. She finished the song and was replaced by a comedy team, followed by a clever tap dancer and a vocal group.

Then the toothy emcee tripped onstage to announce with strained exuberance that we had reached the climax of our festivities, and now Wade and Navarro would present their renowned Dance of the Red Rooster. With a last flash of teeth and sweeping wave of hand he cried, “Wade ... and Navarro!” then left, taking the microphone with him, as the lights dimmed again.

The table at which Elaine and I sat was to the right of the stage's center, back a few rows from the front but providing a good view of the action. A red spotlight flooded the floor, and then Wade and Navarro appeared simultaneously, one from the left and the other from the right of the stage. They ran to opposite sides of the floor and stopped, waiting for the quick burst of applause to swell and die.

The costumes were good. Each of the dancers wore about as little as the law allowed, yet enough so that it was easy to tell they represented fowl. The Red Rooster was Joe Navarro, and though cockfights are between roosters, not a rooster and a hen, Bunny was obviously the rooster's female counterpart. No type or amount of costuming, when as much of her showed as now showed, would ever make Bunny look like a rooster.

Navarro wore an erect and brilliantly red counterpart of a rooster's comb on his head, a tight cap covering his black hair, sleeves of white feathers on his arms, red, blue and yellow feathers around his knees. Bunny wore the same type of feathers on arms and knees, plus a tight cap of white feathers on her head and a very few more over her jaunty breasts. Behind each was affixed a large tail of multi-colored feathers, long and brilliant, swaying with their movements. From both heels of each of the dancers jutted long curved, brightly gleaming silver spurs.

They looked more like mutant macaws than rooster and hen, but it wasn't likely that anybody would complain. Despite the apparent profusion of feathers, there was a great deal of skin showing, gleaming in the rosy light. They paused at opposite sides of the floor, then as the applause subsided into silence appeared to notice each other and moved sideways, sliding their spurred feet. They strutted forward, danced around each other in a circle that became smaller and smaller until they almost touched.

The band, silent until now, burst suddenly into a shrill dissonant chord and the dancers leaped into the air, arms flailing like wings, spurs flashing in the light like steel knives. As the band played a wild melody, the dancers collided in air, reeled apart, swirling around in tight circles, then leaped upon each other again.

They were really good. Even Navarro. He seemed like fluid steel, graceful but strong and in complete control of every movement. Both dancers leaped through the air, barely missing each other, spinning as they leaped, the bright tail feathers whipping in colorful arcs behind them. They could have stopped then, and the act would have been a good one—but the best was yet to come.

The sound and tempo of the music changed, became more sensual—and so did the dance. Both performers stopped after a leap through the air and stood motionless, looking at each other. After a long moment, the dance began again. It was the same as before—and yet not the same. They went through almost identical motions, but it was that “almost” that made the difference. It was a subtle thing, not bold or obvious, but it became apparent that some of those notes from the orchestra must have contained the melody of a mating call.