The PI Who Knew Too Much Ch. 04

The PI Who Knew Too Much-04

A lovely lady from OZ took the time to comment after Chapter 03 that I have been slothful (my word, not hers) about posting installments, and it would be most helpful for my handful of readers were I to include a decent synopsis at the start of any new chapter. I shamefacedly acknowledge my sloth, and herewith attempt to set this bit in context:

* The story is set in mid-1950s Los Angeles, CA, USA.

* Our nominal protagonist, Peter Spector, is a private investigator, whose secretary is named Lupe.

* He was hired by one Lorelei Bezier to determine whether her husband Charles, a Certified Public Accountant, is having an affair.

* He finds Charles murdered in his office.

* He tells Lorelei, who shoots him and nearly kills him.

* While in hospital, he learns from his friendly cop (Lt. Daniel Wilkes) that Lorelei has now also been murdered.

* He returns to Charles' office and discovers a secret compartment with a passport for Samuel Barlow (who looks suspiciously like Charles), a bundle of C-notes and a journal.

* The journal reveals that Bezier was buying the services of a prostitute named Silka.

* It also reveals that Bezier was laundering money for a couple of local gangs, and describes how the gangs operate throughout Los Angeles.

* He makes a handwritten copy of the gang-related information to give to Lt. Wilkes.

* He searches the Beziers' home but finds only another accountant's business card.

Thank you, Lue.

Previously, on The PI Who Knew Too Much—

I got back to the office around 4:30. Lupe said there were no calls, as usual. She looked like she wanted to ask where I'd been and why I was gone so long, but didn't. She just put on her coat, picked up her purse, and left. Pissed again. I was getting good at that.

The name on the card was James T. Kirchner. It sounded vaguely familiar. I sat and pondered for a while, then dug the Herald-Express out of the wastebasket. A brief story on page 5 reported that an accountant named James Kirchner was found shot to death in his Pasadena office.

I wondered what the hell I was getting into.

I DIALED THE SYcamore 4 number on Kirchner's card, gave it up after 15 rings, then the SYcamore 7 number on the back. After 4 rings, a man answered. He didn't sound friendly.

"Yea...hello?"

"May I please speak with Mrs. Kirchner?" I tried to sound as non-threatening as a nun caught out of uniform in a dive bar.

"Who's this?"

"Oh, just a friend. I wanted to tell her how sorry I was to hear what happened to Jim."

"She ain...isn't here right now. Maybe you oughta call back some other time."

"Could you tell me when—" I was talking to the dial tone, which didn't tell me anything. Before he hung up I heard a woman's voice in the background ask "Who is it?" At least he didn't slam the phone down, so I didn't, either.

I sat and thought about life for a while. Didn't know much about that, so I ran through everything I knew about what had happened since Lori-with-an-i Bezier came into my office. That didn't amount to a fart in a windstorm, either. I gave up, locked up, and left.

THE MAIN PROBLEM with not drinking is it takes away the excuse to hang out in bars. Where else can you find cheap advice, fake friends, and—even if sometimes you had to pay for it—female companionship?

My solution was Bernie's, a neighborhood saloon a couple of blocks from my office. Once a week or so I'd go in, sit at the bar, and trade lies with the bartender. Well, mostly lies. Laverne knew I didn't touch the stuff, and why I didn't, so she had developed a convincing way of shaking up a phony martini using nothing but water and ice cubes.

When she poured it through the strainer and plunked in a couple of olives on a toothpick, it looked like the real deal. I'd run a tab and drink three or five over the evening. She charged full fare for the first and comped the rest. Said the full fare was to cover the cost of the olives. I always tipped her a buck.

I sat and nodded hello. Laverne could read me pretty well. Better than I wished, in fact. She brought me my Fonytini—her name, not mine—looked me in the eye, and murmured soothingly, "Jesus, Spector, you look lower than whale shit. What's wrong?"

I couldn't think of a short answer, and telling the whole story would make me sound like a dumb jerk. I mumbled something non-committal, letting her know that I didn't want to talk about it. She left me alone after that, bringing another drink whenever I caught her eye. I sat there for three hours drinking water, eating olives, scanning the joint, trying to think about nothing.

Pickings were pretty slim. A few drunks sitting at the bar with me, a table of hot-shit lawyer types bragging about their latest wins, three gals stopping in after work who left after an hour or so, a couple of bored housewives who drank rum and Cokes and tried to convince themselves they were being daring. Occasionally a working girl would come in, pass over the drunks, and strike out with the hot shots. They'd all seen me often enough to know that if I was interested I'd let them know. I wasn't and didn't.

I signaled Laverne for one last drink and the tab. She slid them over to me and I gave her a five. When she brought back the change, I tipped her a $2 bill. She raised her eyebrows. I tried to grin, but it came out a grimace. "Yeah, it's all for you, doll. Just don't expect that much every time." Rolling her eyes, she tucked the bill in her shirt pocket. Her relief showed up a few minutes later, and she disappeared behind the back bar.

When she slid onto the stool next to me, she'd changed into a V-neck sweater and nicely snug slacks. The new barkeep brought her a drink that looked suspiciously like a double bourbon rocks. She tasted it, then nodded toward an empty booth. "I'm off early tonight. Let's sit for a bit." We walked over and sat across from each other. She took another pull on her drink.

"Okay, Pete, spill. What'd the Bitch of Burbank do this time?" I never should have told Laverne about my ex-wife or why I stopped drinking, but she was a good listener. That was just one of the things that made her a good bartender. Good bartenders don't give away secrets. I decided it was probably okay that I told her.

"Nope, she's been quiet for a change. It's just a bunch of job stuff, too long and too boring a story."

"Try me. God knows I've listened to my share of long, boring stories." She grinned. "Not from you, of course. Go ahead."

I didn't want to talk about it, with Laverne or anyone else. It could get me in trouble if it got out. Hell, it could get her in trouble. I didn't feel much like talking at all, in fact.

Just then, one of the working girls I'd spent some time—not to mention money—with walked through. She slowed a step as she strolled past our booth, and I watched her jiggly butt as she walked off. It had been a while. If I wasn't with Laverne, and if I had a little more money in my wallet, and if pigs had wings...

"You have no idea how insulting that is, Spector. I was just about to suggest we go over to my place to continue this conversation, but—" I must have looked as shocked as I felt. "What? You don't get why it's insulting?" Suddenly I did want to talk. With Laverne. At her place.

"Yes."

"Yes what? You're not making any sense."

"Yes, lets continue this...conversation at your place." I stood up.

She glared at me for a minute, then made a decision. After tossing down the rest of her drink, she stood up, started walking, spoke without looking back. "Follow me, Spector." I followed, watching even more intently. If the hooker's heinie wiggled like two little animals in a pillowcase, Laverne's was more like a prizefighter sparring behind a curtain.

The walk to her place was short, just over two blocks. The conversation after we got there was even shorter.

"What's this all about, Spector? What's your—" I tossed my hat on the kitchen table, grabbed her shoulders, and kissed her to shut her up. She stiffened, then sighed in my mouth and folded into me. It was my turn to stiffen. At least part of me.

I held her back a little and looked closely. She squirmed, then shut her eyes. Laverne wasn't what you'd call beautiful, but better looking than most. Dishwater blond hair still pulled back into her work ponytail, hardly any makeup—just a little mascara and lipstick. She probably thought her nose was too big and her eyes too far apart. She was wrong on both counts.

"Hey. Open your eyes." She did. They were light brown with gold flecks.

I pulled her into a tight hug. She'd taken off her bullet bra. Her breasts weren't large, but they were firm and up where they belonged. Even without the bra, her nipples still felt like little bullets. It was her turn to pull back a bit and hold me away.

"How old are you, Pete?"

I tried for a joke. "Right now I'm 32, going on 49." Instead of laughing, or even smiling, she looked disappointed, bordering on sad.

"I thought you were a lot older. I'm 40." She made it sound like 90.

"An easy mistake, doll. I rode some pretty hard miles in those 32 years. But you sure as hell don't look 40." It was true, she didn't. I squeezed her shoulders to emphasize that I was serious. From what I could see, she didn't look any older than me. I dropped my hands to her butt and squeezed. "Now, what did you have in mind we should converse about?" She tried to pull away, but I held on tight.

"Let me go, Spector. I know what I look like, and I sure as hell don't need any pity sex from you or anybody else." I grabbed her tighter.

"You don't have the faintest goddam idea what you look like, Laverne." I kissed her again, harder this time. She stiffened again, then finally relaxed her lips. I took the invitation and slipped my tongue in, tasting the sweet tang of the bourbon. When I pulled her against my stiffest part, she wrapped her arms around me and tried to squeeze my lungs flat.

We broke away from the kiss, both panting like we'd just run up a long flight of stairs. She spoke first. "I think we both need this, Pete, but no strings, okay? It'll be just like with one of those chippies, except I won't charge." She grinned. "The first time."

I was fine with the no strings, I didn't want to hurt anyone or give anyone a chance to hurt me. But she was dead wrong about it being like with the hookers. I'd stopped smiling.

"Listen to me and listen good, Laverne. No strings works for me, but you aren't a whore. I know you, I like you, more important, I respect you. I want you to like and respect me, too. If that won't work for you, then I'm outta here."

She froze for a moment, then spun around, backed up to the door, and flung out her arms. "You'll have to go through me, copper, and I ain't moving." I couldn't tell whether she was trying to sound like Edward G. Robinson or Bugs Bunny and failed to smother my laugh.

"That was terrible, doll. You better keep your night job and start taking voice lessons." I was walking toward her while I said this. She reached out, grabbed my wrists, and put my hands on her breasts.

"Then we better move this to my night office, big fella." I was getting stiffer all the time, and it showed. She looked down and smiled. "Looks like you've got a night job you need to keep, too." She dropped one of my hands and led me by the other to her bedroom. When she reached the bed, she turned to face me and fluttered her eyelashes. "Oh kind sir, would you help rid me of these confining garments?"

This was a Laverne I'd never seen before. Oh sure, I'd seen her flirt shamelessly to encourage more drinking (and tips), but always with a worldly, knowing air that made it clear she wasn't serious. This Laverne was winsome, coquettish, even hinting at shy. I was dumbfounded, but entranced and aroused. My raspy voice betrayed my lust. "I would be delighted, fair maid. If you would be so kind as to raise your arms..."

I reached for the hem of her sweater and raised it, following her arms as they went up. The view was marvelous. Her breasts weren't large, but beautifully formed and not the least bit saggy. The skin of her shoulders and chest was shading pink. Her nipples were a deeper pink, wrinkled into hard nubbins. She clenched her arms together to create some cleavage. A hint of ribs graced either side of her stomach, which wasn't flat, just fleshy enough to look earthy.

Her chest heaved as she sucked in one deep breath after another, fixing me with a seductive stare. "It doesn't cost any more to touch than it does to look, sailor." She took a step toward me and put her hands flat against my chest. "Why don't you make sure they meet your approval?" The mock innocence gave way to a wicked smile as she cupped her hands under them. "They meet mine."

Her breasts felt even better with nothing between them and my hands. Her nubby nipples wrinkled even more when I rolled them with my palms. She squeaked as she sucked in a deeper breath, then held it and closed her eyes. I took the opportunity to kiss her again. She pushed my jacket off my shoulders and started loosening my tie.

By the time I'd shrugged out of the jacket and laid it on a chair, she'd finished with the shirt buttons and peeled it off me. In short order we both lost our pants and underwear and I pushed her back on the bed. I was joining her deep breathing exercises.

"Not so fast, sailor. Lose the socks. And mine." I eagerly stripped my argyles and her knee-high nylons, then kissed one of her scrunched-up nipples. "What a good idea. Got any others?" I did, and it turned out she had the same ideas. All too soon I risked breaking the spell by digging a Trojan out of my wallet, but the spell held just as tight as she held me when I buried myself in her.

The first time didn't last very long, it had been quite a while for both of us. But the gods were smiling. I brought her to another climax with my mouth and fingers. Then, happy that I had one more rubber, I managed to ring both our chimes. The second time took quite a bit longer. Long enough, in fact, that I thought she climaxed one more time before the closing bell.

She lay beside me, head on my chest, breasts pressed against my side. "Mmmmm, that was very nice, Pete. Thank you."

"Good grief, Laverne, I thank you. It was more than very nice, it was great." We really didn't know each other well enough for any more pillow talk, so we just lay there and enjoyed the feel of our bodies together. When I shifted my arm around her, she raised her head.

"Stay the night? I could fix us a nice breakfast, and it wouldn't take long to get to your office."

That didn't exactly sound like no strings. She had done wonders for my well being, mental as well as physical, but I didn't want any entanglements. "No can do, doll. I've got a couple of things I have to take care of tonight, and better get going. Please don't think this means it didn't mean a lot to me, it did. But life goes on." I kissed her as I was getting ready to sit up. She didn't pull away, but didn't really kiss me back, either.

"Sure, I understand, Spector."

She stayed lying down while I got dressed. I went over and kissed her lightly a last time. "I wish I could convince you that you're a very pretty woman, and that you deserve to be loved by a good guy. I'm not a good guy."

She tried to look like everything was jake, but couldn't quite carry it off. "I don't want to make this a regular thing, Pete, but it would be nice every once in a while if..."

"Yeah, I think it would be nice, too, Laverne. I'll be around."

I FOUND MY WAY OUT of her apartment and made sure the door was locked behind me. It was a short walk back to where I'd parked the Merc. The ride back to my place wasn't pleasant. I wished she had meant it when she said no strings. With all the other stuff on my mind, I didn't need to feel guilty about hurting a nice girl, and Laverne was a nice girl. Just not for me.

As usual, the hall smelled like piss and stale cigarettes. Letting myself in to my palatial quarters, I lit a Lucky. I hadn't eaten any dinner, but wasn't very hungry. After a couple of drags, I stubbed it out, drank the rest of a quart of milk, and went to bed. Even with the milk, sleep was slow to come.

Tired of fighting another lousy night without much sleep, I finally got up at 7. After a quick shave and shower, I indulged in a diner breakfast of ham and eggs with coffee. Lots of coffee. When I walked into the office, Lupe looked up from yesterday afternoon's mail and mumbled a hello. I mumbled back and went into my office.

I tried to read the Times, but my mind kept wandering to the last couple of times I pissed off Lupe and her mumbled greeting this morning. I finally got up and went out to apologize. She looked up with curiosity when I came out of my office and pulled a folding chair up to her desk.

"I owe you an apology, Lupe, in fact, probably more than one." She looked puzzled, but didn't respond. "I've made you feel that you aren't part of this operation, that I either don't trust you or don't think you can handle anything more complicated than typing, filing, and answering the phone. None of those things are true."

She shook her head and drew breath to protest. "Then why did you—" I cut her off.

"No, please hear me out. A couple of days I didn't tell you where I was going, how long I'd be gone, or what was happening. That's because I thought it might be dangerous and I didn't want you to worry. You don't need to know everything. In fact, it could be dangerous for you if you did know everything. This Bezier case has led to some pretty deep sh...stuff." Her eyes crinkled, she almost managed to hide a smile.

"You know that Bezier was killed, his wife shot me, then she was killed." Lupe nodded. "Turns out that Bezier was laundering money for some local gangs and she was trying to horn in. Some really bad guys didn't like that. I've about got things figured out, but I still need to poke around some. I probably won't tell you all about that, either, just to keep things safe. When it all shakes out, I'll give you the whole story. Okay?"

She nodded again. "Sure, boss. Whatever you say." This time she didn't try to hide the smile. It looked like we were okay again.

I poured myself a cup of coffee (she made it, so it wasn't toxic) and walked back to my desk. For the umpteenth time I went over everything that happened, trying to see something I might have missed. I still didn't know why Lorelei Bezier had another accountant's business card when she was married to one.

Married to an accountant who was skimming money from a couple of small-time local mobs. Nothing in his journal indicated that she knew about his side business. In fact, he made it pretty clear that there was no love lost between then. Could she have somehow figured out what he was up to?

What if she wanted to tap that money herself? Would she know how to go about it, or would she need help? Who better to help than another accountant, another CPA? But he couldn't help now, he was very dead, probably popped by the same mugs who did the Beziers.

All this musing made me think about the journal and money in the bottom drawer, then the other stuff I left in Bezier's hiding place. Something was tickling the edges of my mind, but I couldn't bring it in. I was about to give up when it hit me: the Geary Theater and Top of the Mark are in San Francisco, not LA. I decided I'd better take another look at the stuff I left behind.

I sailed through the outer office, grabbed my hat from the coat tree, then stopped before opening the door. "Gonna run to the deli and the bank. Back in a few." First time I ever lied to Lupe, but after my performance earlier I couldn't just leave without saying something.