Shamus In The Green Room (9 page)

I checked the glove compartment for candy, but no such luck.

I listened to Santana. Then Neil Young. Then ABBA came

on, and my patience was shot.

I leaned out my window like everybody else and yelled up

to the driver of the big rig, “What’s going on?”

He turned his head and yelled back, “Accident just past the

Wayfarer’s Chapel.”

The Wayfarer’s Chapel. That was where Jayne Mansfield

married bulging muscleman Mickey Hargitay in 1958. Talk

about signs.

Twenty minutes later I pulled into the parking lot, which

was nestled in a dense hillside. The traffic would probably be

unsnarled by the time I left.

I’d read about this place for years, but had never quite real-

ized where it was located. It was built in the forties by Lloyd

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Wright (Frank’s son) out of triangular segments of glass,

framed by aged redwood timbers. Wright used thirty- and

sixty-degree angles throughout because they occurred natu-

rally in snowflakes, crystals, and tree branches. It was so po-

etic, that idea.

I swung open the heavy door.

The chapel was empty.

Not unusual for a Wednesday.

I was halfway down the aisle before I realized what I was

doing. That would be walking down the aisle. By the time I

stopped in front of the altar, my legs were feeling pretty shaky.

I looked through the glass at those trees. Pine? Pepper? My

knees started to give out. The branches seemed as if they were

grabbing at me. I couldn’t breathe. I’d been imprisoned inside

a crystal. Was this what Lloyd Wright was going for? Or was

this me? Jayne Mansfield had stood on this very spot. I won-

dered how she’d felt on her wedding day. She wore pink lace

and Mickey’s ten-carat diamond, but they still didn’t make it

till death do us part.

Gambino had wanted to buy me a diamond. But I’d had a

diamond the first time around, and we all know how that

worked out. So I chose an emerald instead. It was tiny but per-

fect. I looked down at my hand and my breathing started to re-

turn to normal. I even broke into a tiny smile. Then, a tourist

in a visor and shorts with many pockets bounced over cheer-

fully, asking if I’d please move because happy as I seemed, I

was standing in the way of his picture.

It was time to go anyway.

Back to the car.

The traffic had cleared.

Back down the hill.

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In search of Maren and Lisa.

They would have gone this same way, I was sure of it. But

where exactly? All I saw were cargo cranes dotting the skyline,

a stream of 99¢ Only stores, a handful of taquerias, and fi-

nally, a sign reading: Come Back to San Pedro.

I hung a U-turn at the next corner. A block later, I drove

past a sign reading: Welcome to San Pedro.

They say the second time’s the charm.

In Hammett’s day, San Pedro was a center of union activ-

ity. Today, not only was it the home of the biggest cargo

terminal in the United States, it was also the port of Los An-

geles’s world-cruise center. At any given moment, thousands of

retirees were plunking down their life’s savings to sail on ships

departing from one of its numerous berths, where they’d be

stuffed full of rich food that would hasten their deaths, not

to mention those small cabins with notoriously bad air circu-

lation.

All this I learned from the woman manning the desk at

Limo San Pedro. I didn’t need a limo, of course, but their

blinking neon sign (“Serving lax at reasonable prices”) struck

me at the time as amusing. Also, there was a parking space out

front. At the mere mention of the word tattoo, the woman

whipped off her pale blue cardigan, her “Hi, I’m Ruth” button

clattering noisily to the floor, and showed me her fairy tattoo.

It was large. After I’d admired it sufficiently, she directed me to

the tattoo parlor on the corner of Mesa and Pacific, which she

said had been there forever.

Tattu du Jour, however, was not the place I was looking for.

It was run by a young man from Paris who’d made a typing

mistake when applying for his Fulbright and had wound up at

Cal State Long Beach instead of UCLA. Turned out he liked

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the sea air and cheap rents, and had always dreamed of having

his own business. He kept saying, “Be calm,” to me, which I

thought was a little rude, but as it turned out he was telling

me to go to Beacon Street. There were a couple of tattoo par-

lors there.

No luck at ACME Deluxe Tattoos. The owner was out and

the help was surly. He looked at me like I was crazy when I

asked how long they’d been in business and if they kept any

kind of records.

The place next door didn’t appear to have a name, although

there was a sign over the register, handwritten in ornate,

Gothic letters, which read: St. Sabrina in Purgatory. A

Hell’s Angels–type with a long, grizzled beard was sitting be-

hind the counter.

“Is the owner here?” I asked him.

“Who wants to know?” he asked, stroking his beard.

“Cece Ribisi.” Which is the actual name of one of my spin-

ster aunts.

He pointed to the sign. “Saint Sabrina is in Purgatory.”

Of course she is. I tried to slink out the door, but he let out

a belly laugh and said, “Just kidding. I’m the owner. Name’s

Frank. How you doing, Ms. Ribisi? Lemme guess. You want a

butterfly.”

My aunt Cece would never pick a butterfly. A crucifix,

maybe? A cannoli? She was extremely overweight. “I’m not ac-

tually shopping for a tattoo today,” I said, “but if I wanted one,

I’d absolutely want a butterfly, and this would absolutely be the

place.”

“Cut the shit. You a cop? I do everything by the book here.

Send the health inspector if you want. Go right ahead, missy.

You aren’t going to find anything—”

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“Hold on a minute,” I interrupted. “I am not a cop. A cop!”

I laughed. “Hardly.”

He looked dubious.

“You can tell by my shoes.”

He ambled out from behind the counter, belly first, and

studied my water-stained silk sandals with the amber Lucite

heels.

“Cops never get their shoes wet, am I right, Frank?”

He gave me a grudging nod and went back to his seat be-

hind the counter. “What do you want, then?”

“I’m trying to figure out where two girls from Palos Verdes

would go if they wanted to get a really unusual tattoo and it

was the seventies.”

“You asking hypothetically?”

“It’s kind of a complicated story.”

He clasped his hands, eager as a schoolboy. “I like stories.”

“It’s not pretty.”

“Do I look like I shock easy?”

“My husband’s been cheating on me—”

“No way,” he interrupted.

“With two women.”

“Come on.”

I nodded. “The only thing I know about them is that they

grew up in Palos Verdes, and when they were kids, they got

matching hourglass tattoos. Really beautiful. Special. On their

shoulders. Right around here.” I pulled back my silk wrapper

and revealed a glimpse of my turquoise lace bra strap. I

thought this might incline Frank toward my cause.

He smiled, revealing some very creative dental work. “I’ve

been here since ’seventy-five, and it don’t ring any bells, Ms.

Ribisi.”

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“Too bad,” I said. “I’d really like these women’s names.”

“Sluts.” He shook his head. “Well, if the place still exists,

there are release forms. They’d tell you their names.”

“Who’s been in town for a while? Doing really unique

work?”

When he didn’t answer, I reached into my purse and took

out one of my business cards, which I’d designed myself to re-

semble a Tiffany’s box. I’d gotten a deal on a thousand of

them, which just goes to show there are no deals.

“Would you call me, Frank, if anything comes to you?”

“And to think,” he said, gold teeth glinting, “I thought you

were going to slip me a twenty.”

“Would that help?”

“Might.”

I pulled one out and gave it to him. He pocketed it, then

turned his attention to my card.

“Caruso? Thought you said it was Ribisi.”

“I’ve gone back to my maiden name,” I said, “on account

of—”

“Makes sense.” He clapped his hands. “I’m sending you to

see the Mayor, Ms. Caruso.”

That seemed extreme.

“The Mayor runs this town. Knows everybody and every-

thing. You describe the tattoo, Mayor’ll give you the who,

what, when, and where.” Frank looked at his watch. “It’s five

o’clock. Why don’t you head on over to the Spot? Say Frank

sent you.”

The Spot turned out to be a bar located in a little cottage

with a big satellite dish. The “S” of the sign had flamed out, so

if you didn’t know, you’d think you were heading to “The

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Pot.” The “O” was a bull’s-eye, with an arrow shot through it.

I hoped it was a good omen.

The Spot smelled the way certain bars do, a stomach-

churning goulash of stale beer, sweat, and cheese. There was a

basketball game playing on a big screen behind the pool table,

but all eyes were instantly on me. Good thing there were only

four of them. One pair belonged to the bartender, the other to

a sixtyish woman channeling Dynasty-era Joan Collins in a

spangly royal-blue turban and matching pants suit. She was

seated at the far end of the bar, under the Corona banner, eat-

ing peanuts while doing a crossword puzzle.

“What can I do you for?” asked the bartender.

“I’ll have a club soda.”

“You got it.”

“With lime,” I added, going for broke.

He squirted the club soda into a dirty glass, stuck a slice of

lime on the rim, and slid it toward me, along with a bowl of

pretzels. Guess you had to be a regular to get the nuts.

“Thanks,” I said.

He watched me not drink.

“Something else you need?”

“Actually, I’m looking for the Mayor.”

Silence.

“Frank sent me.” I sounded like a bad movie.

“ ‘Path of virtuous conduct, to some,’ ” the woman said

out loud.

“Kosher!” shouted the bartender.

“Three letters. What about humble, also three letters?”

“Shy?” he offered.

“Pie,” I said. And I should know.

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“Ooh, yes,” she said, erasing something furiously. When

she was done, she smiled at me. “Hear you’re looking for the

Mayor.” She wiped the lipstick from the corners of her mouth

and came over. “That would be me. Duly elected, sworn in,

and officiating twenty-four/seven. Always available for my con-

stituents. Will you vouch for me, Andy?”

“You have to ask, Mayor?”

The Mayor looked like she might have been pretty once,

movie-star pretty. Those women go one of two ways. Either

they live in denial, with overreaching hairdos and makeup, or

they give up the ghost. The Mayor was in denial. “How’s

Frank these days?” she asked me.

I squirmed a little. “About the same.”

“I worry about that boy. He’s too giving, I keep telling him.

You gotta keep some things for yourself. So. What are you in

the market for?”

“Information,” I said quickly.

“Don’t worry, honey. We only sell drugs to folks we know.

Laugh, Andy!” she commanded. “Tell this lady I’m joking!”

“You’re a real joker, Mayor.”

“What kind of information are we talking about?” she

asked, serious now.

I explained the situation to the Mayor, going into as much

detail as I could. I’d only seen Lisa’s tattoo for a split second.

The hourglass was tipped on its side and swathed in something

satiny. The glass was what had struck me as so amazing. It was

translucent, yet seemed to distort the skin underneath, like sea

glass does.

The Mayor rubbed her chin, her nose, her forehead. She

shook her head and massaged her neck. Finally, she said she

had a couple of ideas. Could she look into them and call me?

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I handed her a card and told her how much I’d appreciate it.

Then she led me off to the ladies’ bathroom. I told her I didn’t

need to use the facilities, but she said she had something to

show me. We crammed into the small space, then she shut the

door and peeled off her jacket.

Turned out she wanted to show off her own tattoos.

Over her right breast was a sexy devil pinup, with yellow

flames licking at a pair of trim ankles. On her left arm there

was a Celtic cross stretching from shoulder to elbow. It shim-

mered, like a stained-glass window.

“The first Mayor did them,” she said proudly. “My late

husband.”

“Beautiful,” I murmured.

She wanted more.

“He must’ve loved you a lot,” I said.

“Thanks, sweetie.” She put her jacket back on and hugged

me good-bye. Her face felt cool and papery.

I tried not to think on the ride home, just to focus on the

road.

CHAPTER

TEN

Detective Smarinsky wasn’t available the first time I tried

him that evening. Or the second. The third time the