Shamus In The Green Room (4 page)

“You want one of those photographers to get a picture of

you committing petty larceny? You just stole that woman’s

money!”

“Good eye,” he noted. “You’re not going to rat me out,

are you?”

“We’re finished,” I said, peeling off the microphone. “I

quit.”

“You quit?”

“You heard me.”

“Cece. Slow down.” He took me by the arms. “I was just

showing off. Jeez.”

He led me back into Ike’s, where he confessed his so-called

error to the woman, who was restocking the beef jerky. Glar-

ing openly at him now, she slammed down a canister of Slim

Jims and walked back to her register to check out his story.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” she said, blinking a few times. “I

suppose I should thank you for being honest. More than most

people can manage.”

Rafe the choirboy said, “It’s the way I was raised.”

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“God bless the mothers,” she intoned, closing the register

drawer.

We headed down Larkin in silence. Finally, I said, “ ‘A little

knowledge is a dangerous thing.’ ”

He turned to me. “Bacardi in a wineglass.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Sam Spade’s drink. You’ve been doing

your homework.”

“I’m not so bad, really. Can we just move on? Please?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

“I shouldn’t have done that back there.” Contrite he did

rather well.

“No, you shouldn’t have.” Holier-than-thou I did better.

“I apologize.” He did sound sincere.

“Let’s just get to Hammett and the Pinkertons,” I said.

“Which are not dogs.”

“Which are not dogs. Which are detectives. Keep going.”

We were in the Tenderloin now, usually described as the

worst part of the city. It didn’t seem all that different from

West Hollywood. Outside the Phoenix Hotel, which had a

massive plaster Buddha mounted on its flat roof, a homeless

man waved a sign in my face: the end of the world is

nigh. A toothless guy hanging out in a doorway asked if he

could take me with him to Chicago. The usual stuff. Local

color.

“ ‘We Never Sleep’ was the Pinkerton motto,” Rafe said.

“Their logo was a big, unblinking eye. They predated J. Edgar

Hoover’s FBI, and functioned as a private security agency op-

erating across state lines to try and protect good people from

bad ones. Their watchwords were ‘anonymity, morality, and

objectivity.’ How am I doing so far?”

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“Better than I would have guessed.” I filled in the blanks.

“Hammett answered a vaguely worded ad in a Baltimore paper

in 1915 and spent the next seven years, off and on, traveling

America as a Pinkerton operative. That experience is what

made him unique among pulp writers. He was a real-life tough

guy. He had a dent in his head from being hit by a brick when

he bungled a tailing job. He had the broken-off tip of a knife

embedded in the heel of his hand. He taught his daughters

how to break a handhold by pinching back the little finger.

And knife scars? He had them up and down his legs.”

Scars.

My gaze went involuntarily to Rafe’s cheek. His hand

found the spot, as if he’d just been slapped.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “God, I’m so rude.”

“It’s okay.” There was an uncomfortable pause. “Surfing ac-

cident when I was a kid. Got knocked under, didn’t know

which way was up. I was lucky, I guess. Broke my arm, got

scraped up on the rocks a little, that was it. I’m not exactly a

tough guy.” He smiled sheepishly. “But I play one in the

movies.”

You are here to dispense information, I said to myself, not

the other way around. Not to swap life stories. Not to make

friends. “The Pinkerton experience was vital for Hammett,”

I said too loudly. “Every one of his characters was based on

someone he encountered while working as an operative. Except

Sam Spade. Spade was an original.”

“I thought Spade was Hammett,” Rafe said.

“Hammett was a detective, but Spade was a dream detec-

tive. Smart, fearless, a little bit cruel.” A blond Satan. That’s

how Hammett described him. All sharp edges. Even his hair

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came to a point on his forehead. Rafe was going to need some

fancy barber. “We’re here, by the way.”

“Where’s here?” Rafe asked.

“Post Street, 891.”

We stopped outside a four-story redbrick building at the

corner of Hyde and Post, built in the teens, pretty much non-

descript, with a Chinese laundry on the ground floor.

“This,” I said, gesturing dramatically, “is the place Ham-

mett lived when he created Sam Spade. Before Nell Martin.

He lived here with his family. Apartment 401.” I pointed to the

top, right-hand corner. “It’s also Sam Spade’s apartment in The

Maltese Falcon. The novel provides all the clues.”

“Cool.”

“And we’re going inside.” I pushed as many of the forty-six

buzzers as I could cover with my open hand.

Rafe looked at me admiringly.

“Now don’t do that,” I said. “This is a pedagogical exercise.

I’m a professional here.”

“Of course,” he said slyly. “It’s not like you’re showing off

or anything.”

I tapped my foot. “Somebody’s going to let us in.”

“Yes?” said a female voice.

I smiled triumphantly. “Delivery.”

The buzzer sounded.

The lobby was large and airy, with a couple of potted palms

in one corner and an extraordinary pressed-tin ceiling, unfor-

tunately painted glossy white. I pulled open the elevator’s fold-

ing brass grill and we entered the tiny box.

“This is the original elevator,” I said. “It’s the last one in the

city with a rope cable.”

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“Thanks for telling me,” Rafe said as we started our ascent

to the fourth floor.

“When we get up there, don’t say anything. Just follow me.

I know where we’re going.”

“Okay.”

“Hammett was claustrophobic,” I said.

“Really?”

“I can’t imagine how he handled this elevator.”

“Pretty tight quarters,” Rafe said, nodding.

“Every single day.”

“Maybe he took the stairs.”

“He was too sick by that point,” I said. “Are you hot? Be-

cause I’m really warm.”

“I’m fine.”

“This elevator is sure taking its time.” Every day Hammett

would shut himself up in this cage, the air being sucked out of

his lungs, the walls closing in around him.

Rafe’s phone started to ring.

“Hello?”

I wiped the sweat off my brow.

“Speaking.”

The elevator lurched to a stop.

Rafe put up his finger for me to wait. Then he hung up.

“What is it?” I asked.

His hand was trembling as he pushed the button for the

lobby. The elevator creaked back into motion.

“What are you doing?” I pushed the emergency stop.

He released it. “I have to go back to L.A.”

“Now? Why? What’s going on?” I asked.

“What?” He hadn’t even heard me.

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“Why do you have to go back to L.A.?” I repeated.

“Why don’t you stop asking me so many questions?”

“You don’t have to jump down my throat.”

“Sorry.” He lowered his voice. “It was the coroner’s office.”

The elevator stopped with a shudder. Rafe put on his lucky

hat and said, “They want me to identify a dead body.”

CHAPTER

FOUR

We made it on to a ten o’clock flight, but didn’t arrive at

1104 North Mission Road until close to one o’clock

in the morning. Rafe parked the car, turned off the motor, and

sat there, staring straight ahead.

The building was the color of mud, unremarkable except

for the flashing LED display out front. “Don’t make the coro-

ner your designated driver!” “Call a cab or call the coroner!”

“Visit our gift shop, ‘Skeletons in the Closet’!” It was like Ve-

gas. Everything was like Vegas.

“I guess this is it,” I said.

“Guess so,” Rafe answered, still staring.

“Okay, then.” I reached for the door.

He wasn’t moving.

“Should we go inside?” I asked.

“Yeah.” He slapped the wheel with both hands and turned

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toward me. His beautiful smile looked like he’d pasted it on

crooked.

Joyless didn’t begin to describe the atmosphere in the wait-

ing room. Someone had made a valiant effort. The olive-green

linoleum was spotless. The acoustic-tile ceiling was in good re-

pair. Pictures of the L.A. County supervisors were arranged in

a neat row. But all you could see was the pay phone mounted

high on the wall opposite.

So much bad news to deliver.

Rafe sat down next to me. “Lady said it’d be a few minutes.

Thanks for coming with me.”

“Sure.”

“I realize it was a lot to ask.”

I smiled. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

He wasn’t that good an actor.

Sitting across from us was an older couple being inter-

viewed by a younger woman, half in Spanish, half in English.

“Cicatrices?” That meant scars. The older woman traced a

line across her forehead. The younger woman wrote something

down on her clipboard.

“Tattoos?” The man indicated his shoulder. His wife shook

her head and touched his arm. The younger woman wrote this

down, too.

Rafe’s eyes were closed. He was trying not to watch.

What color hair?

Brown.

What color eyes?

Brown.

Rafe had barely spoken a word since we’d gotten on the

plane. I suppose there was nothing to say.

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“What color shirt?” the younger woman asked.

The couple looked at one another, uncomprehending.

“Camisa?” she offered.

“Ah, camisa. Rayada.” The man ran his finger across his

chest. Striped.

The older woman crossed and uncrossed her ankles. Her

husband patted her hand. I watched their reflections on the

linoleum.

“Mr. Simic?”

We leapt to our feet.

“I’m Captain Donaldson. It’s a pleasure meeting you. I

wish it were under better circumstances.”

Captain Donaldson was squat and reassuring. He had on a

white shirt and government-issue glasses he must’ve had since

the fifties.

“Thank you. This is my friend Cece Caruso.”

He nodded. “Sit down. Please. I want to make this as easy

as possible. I realize this is not where you’d like to be right now.

Can I get you anything? Some water? A soda?”

Rafe shook his head.

“Young lady?”

“No, thank you.”

“Well, then.” He opened the manila file on his lap and

fumbled noisily with some papers. “Here’s what’s going to

happen.”

Rafe took my hand. His was wet.

“I’m going to show you a Polaroid. You’re going to take a

look at it and tell me if you recognize the person in it. Then

we’ll be done. Are you ready?”

Rafe nodded.

Captain Donaldson slid a small color photograph facedown

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across the table. When it was directly in front of Rafe, he

turned it faceup, pulled his hand back, and waited.

It was a woman. Her blond hair was wild, her brown eyes

wide open, her mouth a twisted gash. I turned away, the nausea

rising. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the older woman

standing at the pay phone, crying.

A minute passed. I turned back to Rafe. He was studying

the picture without touching it. Two minutes. Three. His

hands were clenched in his lap. His face was unreadable. Cap-

tain Donaldson waited. The older couple left. The room was

silent now.

Rafe cleared his throat.

Captain Donaldson leaned forward.

“I’m . . . I’m not sure,” Rafe said.

There was a commotion at the door.

“What the—” someone said.

“Ah, Detective Smarinsky has arrived.”

A reedy fellow with a yarmulke and bags under his eyes

shook his head at the coffee he’d just sloshed on his navy-blue

jacket, which was at least a size too big. “Don’t get up,” he said.

“Sorry I’m late, and such a putz. Keep doing what you’re do-

ing. And here you go.” He handed us each a business card.

“We were just looking at the Polaroid,” Captain Donaldson

said, frowning. “I think Mr. Simic needs a little more time.”

“Lemme show you what I got,” Smarinsky said, tossing his

coffee into the trash. “Time to get this show on the road.” He

sat down, reached across me, shoved the Polaroid aside, and

placed something in front of Rafe. “Like I told you on the

phone, we haven’t been able to ID the body. No wallet, no keys,

no pocketbook, no nothing. No missing persons matching the

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description. We ran the prints through the system but didn’t get

a single hit. Bupkes. Zip. This was in the pocket of her jeans.

It’s the sum total of what we’ve got. That’s why we called your

manager.”

“Will?” Rafe held on to the name like it was a life raft.

“Yeah, Will.” Smarinsky pulled out his notes and paged

through them. “Here it is. Will Levander. I told him I needed

to talk to you. He gave me your number. So take a look. See if

it rings some bells.”

Sitting on the table, next to the Polaroid, was another pho-

tograph, this one black and white. The paper was waterlogged