Trouble in Rooster Paradise (18 page)

“
Aren’t you afraid the skirt-chasing
will get old someday?”

“
Perish the thought. I figure I’ll
just work on being more distinguished as I get older. A man can get
away with it. A few flecks of gray at the temples will go well with
the crows-feet that make an older man look the dasher. I’ll just
use a new kind of bait for a different school of female fishies;
that’s what I’ll do. A man’s got to revise and improvise, if you
take my meaning.”

“
Revise and improvise. It sounds
like you’ve thought through your future.”

“
You better believe it,
Sport.”

We ate in silence for a while. A couple of
pretty bobby-soxers sauntered by. A real salt-and-pepper pair of
teenagers that could easily play the movie parts for Archie’s Betty
and Veronica. They peeked back at us over their sweatered shoulders
and tittered and chirped.

“
Untouchables,” de Carter
muttered.

“
Say again?”

He nodded toward the girls, his nostrils
flaring like those of a satyr in rut. “San Quentin quail. Jail
bait.”

He watched the girls disappear while I studied
him. His satyr’s grin was pleasant. A friendly grin. A grin that
told you he was harmless, companionable. The grin didn’t go with
the tiny glint of coldness in his eyes that hinted at those parts
of the elephant I couldn’t reach at the moment.

I asked him about his work at the ad
agency.

He told me he was part idea man, part salesman
for Sloane and Associates. “I’ve known Sloane for years. He gives
me a pretty free rein. I come up with gimmicks and campaigns that
sell the merchandise. I schmoose the clients. I wine ’em and dine
’em when needed. And believe you me, sport, I’m generous in pouring
on the schmalz,” he said, giving me a wink. “Basically I sell
merchants on my ideas and try to keep them happy and writing those
checks.”

“
Do you like the work?”

He shrugged. “I’d like to be rich, but who
wouldn’t? Working for Sloane keeps me in food, duds, and trolling
money. I have no real complaints.”

I took our sandwich wrappings and walked over
to a trashcan to make a deposit. When I returned he pulled out two
cartons of milk from the paper bag.

“
Care for an after-lunch drink?” he
asked, handing me one of the milks.

I thanked him.

“
Is Guy de Carter the name you were
born with?”

He shook his head. “No. My mother named me
Buford. Buford Carston. I had it legally changed when I got out of
the navy after the war. Felt I needed a little more flair than
Buford, and a wee bit more pizzazz than Carston. And the ladies
do
love the name. Gives me a continental air, don’t you
know.”

We slugged down our milk. I took the paper bag
from him and crumpled it with our empties inside before saying,
“About what you saw the day before yesterday ….”

“
Oh yes. The lover’s spat. I’d
popped by the store to pick up some product samples to study. But
tell me, sport, what exactly do you want to know?”

“
It sounds to me that when Dirk
Engstrom started sounding off at his girlfriend, you were standing
pretty close.”

He nodded. “From about here to that geyser.”
The fountain he pointed to was about fifteen feet away from us. “I
was just leaving when the kid exploded. His girlfriend was spraying
perfume samples for an old timer. The old guy was giving the girl
his imitation of Count Dracula when the boyfriend came in and
started shouting. Believe you me, I noticed.” He started to laugh.
“The old timer and I practically bowled each other over trying to
get out of the way.”

“
What all did you hear?”

“
Only a little. And not all that
clearly. Who wants to be part of a fracas? Gramps and I slowly
retreated together with the kid’s back to us the whole time. At
that moment his girlfriend was the only one in the room as far as
he was concerned. But I did hear the kid say ‘Or I’ll kill you.’
That came through clear as day.”

“
You’re sure of that?”

He crossed his heart and held his hand
up.

De Carter reached in his shirt pocket and
pulled out a fresh toothpick and hung it out of the corner of his
mouth. I got myself an after-lunch clove.

He went on with his story. “I thought his
threat was just one of those things people say in anger. Who knew
he’d really do it? Kill her that is.”

He stared at me with pure-hearted astonishment,
but his surprise was just a wee bit too earnest.

“
At the time the kid wasn’t hitting
his girlfriend or anything. He was just beating his gums. So I got
out of there after a minute or two. Like I said, I’m rarely in that
place as it is. And besides, I was already late for an
appointment.”

He looked at his wristwatch. “Speaking of
appointment, I’d better be on my way to my next one,
Sport.”

“
One last question.”

“
Shoot.”

“
What kind of car do you
drive?”

He gave me a curious look, a flicker of
reappraisal in his eyes. “A ’49 Ford convertible. Maroon. I bought
it new. Risky in our wet city, I know. But what’s life without a
few risks. Am I right, Sport?”

I told him he was right.

“
Why the interest in the make of my
car?”

“
Oh, I don’t know. Given the swath
you cut, I’d have pegged you as a Packard man.”

He laughed a laugh that could spread like
cholera.

“
No. Not me. Packards are a little
too
conventional. Besides, the ladies like the open air.
They like to feel the wind blowing through their hair. Candy’s
dandy, and liquor’s quicker, but the open air makes ’em breezy and
carefree. It’s all part of the game, sport. All part of the
game.”

We stood and shook hands.

He handed me his business card and said, “Let
me know if I can be of any further help.”

I thanked him and studied his buoyant gait as
he left the rose garden. I watched him get into his maroon ragtop.
For Guy de Carter, the world wasn’t simply his oyster. It was an
oyster with a healthy dollop of cocktail sauce to be swallowed
whole with a champagne chaser.

Sex has always been pretty high up on my
pursuit of happiness list, but I liked to think I was a nobler cut
of beefcake than Guy de Carter. At least I hoped so.

Dames were dames to Guy de Carter. They were
useable and disposable. Like clothes put on and taken off, or money
that quickly changes hands. Always a new suit to be bought. Always
some new bills issued by the mint.

I couldn’t see any reason why de Carter would
lie about what he’d heard. No apparent motive. But either he
was
lying or Dirk did indeed threaten to kill Christine and
was denying what he’d said to cover his butt. Or maybe Dirk said so
many stupid things in anger that day, he simply didn’t remember
what all he said.

I thought of the term Blanche Arnot had used
for Guy de Carter: drugstore cowboy. I suppose it fit him. But
while there were no silver spurs on his Koolies, he was no ordinary
cowpoke. And he was definitely no harmless lothario.

Mrs. Arnot said she’d seen de Carter in the
store many times. De Carter told me he was seldom in the place. It
could simply be a conflict of perception—one of them overstating
the case. Or someone had just plain lied.

People I met in my line of work let you into
their life a keyhole at a time. And, I was used to being lied to
between those brief peeks. I was lied to all the time. People don’t
usually divulge very much unless they think you know something that
might hurt them. Then they’ll chat and jabber with the intent of
persuading you that you’re mistaken or that you’ve heard things
wrong. They’ll lie when they don’t need to. And sometimes
especially then. That’s what usually trips them up.

I was still holding the paper bag containing
our empty milk cartons. I uncrumpled it, dug around inside, and
pulled out a small receipt from the Big Bite Café on Greenwood
Avenue. It was proof of purchase for two milks and two sandwiches.
Our lunch was no Chit-Chat Café freebie.

If de Carter had lied to me about something as
trivial as where and how he’d gotten the lunch, what else had he
lied about?

I’d left the Chevy in the zoo’s nearby south
gate parking lot. I scouted the area before I turned the motor
over. All was quiet on the zoo’s southern front.

I wended my way southeast then headed over
toward the water and Ballard. I figured to stop in at my office.
Spotting a phone booth, I pulled over.

Britt Anderson was delighted to be hearing from
me again so soon. She didn’t say those words exactly, but I like to
think I’m a fair translator of female inflections.

I told her I’d just come from talking with Guy
de Carter. “He says he seldom comes into the store. What say
you?”

She thought for a moment. “I’ll admit I’ve
encouraged him to keep his visits strictly business.”

“
He thinks you don’t like him very
much.”

She sighed and hesitated to answer. “I don’t
dislike
him. Not really. It’s just that … well, I guess
I don’t know him very well. But, he’s been known to distract some
of the girls when they should be working. I’ve talked with him
about it. He seems to have gotten the point. But maybe he stops in
when I’m not aware of it. After all, Sloane and Associates is just
two floors up. It is rather convenient for him.
Why
? Is it
important?”

“
Just clearing up a small
discrepancy. You started to say something about de Carter, but
didn’t. What were you going to say?”

“
Oh, it’s nothing really. It’s just
that there’s a certain … menacing quality about him. I’m sure
it’s nothing. Please forget I even said it. Like I said, I don’t
know him well.”

“
Any luck with your
staff?”

“
I’m sorry, Gunnar. I’ve only had
time to talk with Peggy. A minor emergency came up. A colossal
mix-up with one of the orders. Peggy did say that as far as she
knew, Dirk Engstrom was the only serious suitor Christine had. She
emphasized the word ‘serious,’ and I was going to press her on it
when I got called away. But before the day is through I’ll be sure
and get back to her, and to a couple of the other girls as
well.”

I said I appreciated it, and asked if she’d
call me later. “Let me give you my home phone number,” I
said.

“
Better still, are you busy
tonight?” she asked.

I told her I wasn’t particularly busy, so she
invited me over to her place. “We’ve both got to eat. I’ll just fix
a little extra. We can talk over a meal.”

I said it sounded good to me.

“
Do you like Chianti with your
macaroni and cheese?”

“
Is this some kind of
test?”

She laughed. “I’m teasing. I’m not too
elaborate in the kitchen, but I’ve been told I’m actually a fair
cook.”

We agreed that 7:00 would be just ducky. She
gave me the address to her apartment off Queen Anne
Avenue.

Before we hung up, I remembered another reason
why I’d called.

“
Your girls probably won’t know a
Packard from a Studebaker, but when you’re talking to them, ask if
they know of any man they’ve come in contact with who drives a
newer model Packard.”

“
Why, I do. I don’t know makes or
models, but I know that Len Pearson bought a Packard just last
year. The reason I’m even remembering it is because that’s all he
seemed to talk about for probably two weeks straight.”

We hung up and I called Pearson’s
office.

When he picked up I told him who was calling
and said, “Do you mind telling me where you were between ten and
ten thirty last night?”

“
Why should I?” he asked.

“
Someone driving a newer Packard
tried to run me down around that time.

“
And you think it was
me
?” He
was clearly annoyed and flustered. He was also a bit drunk. I
almost didn’t catch it. But, his
was
came out as
wus
.
“That’s absurd. Why would I want to run you over?”

“
You still haven’t answered my first
question.”

“
This is ridiculous. I resent what
you’re insinuating.”

“
Humor me.”

He was silent for a moment.

“
Why … if you must know, I was
with an old college buddy of mine. We were at my club. Afterward we
went to dinner and a show.”

I listened more attentively. He was making his
statements like an expert drinker trying to show he’s in
control—carefully putting words together, despite the booze-induced
limits.

“
I was with him till well after
midnight. He can vouch for me.”

“
What was the name of the
show?”

“
That’s none of your
business.”

“
I can make it my
business.”

“
Just screw off,” he shrieked,
though he didn’t hang up.