A Passing Acquaintance with Grace

My good deed got two people killed. And it all started with a dame.

Ain’t that always the way?

****************************

“You did the right thing, Booker. Can’t blame yourself for what happened,” Stella told me. I had just knocked back a fistful of gin and tonics and was feeling the effects of a lot of booze on an empty stomach.

“You bein’ right don’t make it any easier to take, Stell. Raymond and Ophelia Murtaugh are still on slabs downtown. Just as sure as eggs is eggs, that rat bastard Kenny Palmer had something to do with it.”

“Let’s get you home, Book. A good night’s sleep and a decent hangover’ll do you some good.” Stella took his arm and guided him out the door and towards home.

Home was above the office. She nudged him up the stairs and pushed him into bed, taking off his shoes and covering him with a blanket. Stella lay beside him until his snores became irritating and then went home. Better to sleep alone than with a drunk man feeling sorry for himself.

At least, that’s what she told herself.

****************************

Stella says I have a bad temper, a good heart, and an eye for detail. She should know. She’s my secretary, my ride home when I’m soused, and my occasional overnight guest.

Her dreams and mine, though, don’t line up. She wants the ring and the white picket fence. I got my eye on a bar in the Florida Keys. There ain’t no white picket fences in The Keys.

****************************

Booker looked up into the eyes of his secretary/lover/semi-confidant.

“Hair of the dog,” Booker said, tossing a generous amount of gin down his throat. He grimaced, sighed, and then leaned back in his chair. Stella hadn’t left yet, so he suspected that she had something to say. She did.

“You take a shower this morning? Don’t answer that.”

Booker didn’t.

“Put on some cologne and straighten your tie. You have a client.”

“Oh yeah? We have a name?”

Stella stood stock still, gazing at Booker. He became uncomfortable. Stella was in one of her moods. Typical.

“Lola Hurston,” she said. Turning on her heel, she walked out and slammed the door.

“Feed my goldfish!” he yelled after her.

 The small, second-hand aquarium made its appearance in the reception area last week. Stella claimed that it added class to the office. Booker agreed. He liked the goldfish because they asked nothing of him but a few flakes of food.

“Send her in,” Booker bellowed.

Lola Hurston. Kenny Palmer’s main squeeze. She had the kind of curves that made you believe in God. Or the devil. I ain’t figured out which one yet.

She entered the office of Booker Lindstrom, Private Investigator, as cool as a San Francisco morning. Tight skirt. Tight blouse. Loose morals. My kind of woman.

“Kenny didn’t do it. I need you to get him off,” she said, sitting down and lighting a cigarette. Her demeanor suggested that she always got what she wanted.

“I think he did.”

“Yeah, well, Kenny was with me.”

Booker looked her over carefully. She had bags under her baby blues that no amount of make-up could hide, and she had the fire of determination in her tired eyes.

Those are some beautiful lyin’ eyes. I almost believe her.

“I figure Kenny’s gonna burn for this one, Lola. Best to let it go and move on to the next mark.”

Lola glared at Booker.

“Kenny ain’t no mark, gumshoe. He’s my man and he’s innocent.”

“The man ain’t innocent, baby.”

“He didn’t rob that liquor store. It’s just that the slick sleeves downtown don’t believe me when I tell ‘em that Kenny was with me. But he was.”

“Uh huh.”

Booker tamped out his cigarette and poured himself another gin. He offered one to Lola. She took the bottle and drank from it. After putting the bottle down, she opened her purse and dug out an envelope; she tossed it on the desk.

Booker opened it and paused. A thick wad of hundred-dollar bills spilled out.

“Twenty C-notes. And there’s more if you get him off.”

Booker put the money in a desk drawer and wrote out a receipt. Lola didn’t even look at it as she stood up and walked out. Booker sighed. Dames. Good in small doses, like opium.

 ****************************

I knew that Kenny Palmer didn’t rob the liquor store in question. He and I were both in Oakland. He was at the racetrack, bettin’ on nags that couldn’t outrun my grandmother. I was workin’ a case. He never saw me. But I didn’t tell Lola that. I knew she would be good for a few bucks to get him off. I didn’t count on the two grand, though. I don’t know where she got that much dough and I didn’t ask. It don’t always pay to ask, even for a private eye.

Kenny didn’t do himself any favors by threatening to kill old man Murtaugh. Sure, the Irish bastard set him up to take the fall for a robbery. Murtaugh wanted Kenny out of the picture because Kenny had been dumb enough to play house with Ophelia Murtaugh when Raymond was out of town. Kenny beat the rap and wound up workin’ for another outfit; Ophelia went to Paris with Raymond. Kenny was of the opinion that he got the short end of the deal. He’s lucky Murtaugh didn‘t fit him with some cement shoes and send him out for a swim.

I got Kenny off with my deposition. Two months later, Raymond and Ophelia were found dead in their mansion. Both of ‘em shot through the heart. Someone must have been a crack shot to hit targets that small.

It had to have been Kenny’s doin’. I got no love for the Irish mobster, but I sure didn’t want him to die because of me. I ain’t never killed a man, and I’m proud of that. I’m sorry to say that I let the tiger out of the cage.

****************************

Stella click-clacked her way into Booker’s office and sat down. She took a cigarette from Booker’s desk and lit it with Booker’s fancy gold lighter.

Booker waited. He knew that she would say what she had to say when she wanted to say it. Dames.

“Kenny Palmer’s out in reception. Wants his money back.”

Booker nodded and did nothing. Let the man cool his heels.

“I hear the cops paid you a visit last night,” Stella said, blowing smoke towards the ceiling. Booker opened a window to clear the air.

“Yeah. Wanted to know why I was at the racetrack on the day the Murtaughs got iced. They think it’s a put-up job between me and Kenny.”

“What’d you tell ‘em?”

“I told ‘em to read my deposition and to get the hell outta my office.”

“Did they?”

“Yeah, but then the dicks showed up. Asked the same thing.”

“You send them away?”

“No. I treated them to a coupla drinks and we shot the breeze. Had a few laughs. Told a few dirty jokes. Shook hands all around before they left.”

Stella looked at her boss enquiringly.

“The boys in blue and the slick sleeves are different breeds of the same species. The beat cop ain’t smart enough to know which way the wind blows in these parts. That’s why they’re sportin’ blue. The dicks know everything. They run this town.”

Stella tamped out her cigarette and leaned back in her chair. Booker was just getting warmed up.

“The slick sleeves are philosophers. Crime will always be with us, they say. So, let’s make the most of it. Now, they don’t like the Micks. No class. They love the Eye-talians. The Dagos, they say, run a class operation and pay off regular. Well, the Murtaugh murders meant nothin’ to ‘em. They had to arrest someone, so they arrested the most likely Mick. Turns out he didn’t pop the Murtaughs. At this point, they’re just going through the motions, makin’ it look good for the public. A dead Mick just means less work for them.”

Stella shook her head, in disgust and in wonder.

“You’re a part-time drunk and a full-time asshole, but I guess I can see why you make so much dough.”

“Kenny still out there?”

Stella stood up, opened the door, and gave a quick look around the lobby.

“Yeah.”

“Give ‘em a c-note and tell ‘im to get lost.”

“What if he don’t? Get lost, I mean.”

Booker stood up and smiled.

“Then I guess I’ll make his dentist rich.”

****************************

I do okay in the money department. San Francisco has an abundance of two natural resources. Graft and infidelity. Rich dames hire me to spy on their husbands. I get the goods on the husbands and sell them the evidence. I make out on both ends. Ain’t this a beautiful town?

Stella is a problem. I like the dame, but she ain’t gonna stick around forever. She’s got the itch. The “I do” itch. I got seventy-five grand and a road map to Florida. We both got dreams. They just don’t fit together.

****************************

Stella rolled over, putting her head in the crook of her right arm and gazing at Booker. Cigarette smoke curled and danced in the air, a slow-motion ballet of tendrilled fumes drifting towards the ceiling and diffusing into a fug of acrid vapor. Booker handed the cigarette to Stella and got out of bed in search of gin.

“You look good naked,” Stella said.

“Nude.”

“What?”

“People without clothes on are nude. And you ain’t so bad yourself, Stell.”

“Thanks. Just what every woman wants to hear.”

Stella sipped her gin. Booker swallowed five fingers of the liquid and crawled back into bed.

“I’m leavin’ the agency,” Stella said softly. She finished her gin and declined the offer of more. Booker shrugged and poured out a healthy dose for himself.

“I figured.”

The silence was heavy but not uncomfortable. Booker felt his heart tighten just a little. He knew it was coming, but it still bothered him.

Stella rolled over on her back and tossed the covers off. The night was unusually warm for San Francisco, or maybe it was the thought of leaving the only man who had always been decent towards her.

“I want you to come with me.”

Booker looked at Stella. She was staring at the ceiling, not daring to look Booker in the eye. The gentle rise and fall of her chest reminded Booker of the ocean waves rushing in and then scuttling back out to sea. Over and over. Peaceful. Constant. Dependable.

“I got to get to Florida, honey. I wanna sell drinks that are light on alcohol and heavy on presentation to the tourists. I wanna sit by the ocean and bury my toes in the sand. I wanna sleep with the windows open. I want palm trees and a front porch.”

“You ever think to ask me what I want?” Stella got up and stood by the window. She wanted Booker to see what he was giving up.

“I know what you want. The middle-class American Dream. That’s for mooks, Stell.”

“Maybe I’m a mook.”

“And what’re you gonna do for dough?”

Stella climbed back into bed, leaned over, and kissed Booker.

“I gotta tale to tell ya’,” she whispered.

****************************

A dame with balls and brains. Who woulda thought it?

****************************

“Remember the day you gave your deposition for Kenny?”

“Sure.” Booker lit another cigarette and shared it with Stella. He wasn’t that big on talking after sex, but he figured that Stella was owed this. It would be his parting gift to her.

“Well, I ran into Kenny and Lola on my way home. They invited me out for a drink and I accepted.”

“What was I doin’?”

“Your usual. Single-handedly keeping the gin industry in business.”

“Funny, Stell. Very funny.”

“We started drinkin’, but they were really puttin’ it away. Then they started whispering to each other. Bein’ so drunk, they didn’t notice me listenin’ in on their conversation. Seems Kenny knew where they kept their wealth, bein’ all lovey-dovey with Ophelia at one time.”

“Oh yeah? That’s extremely interesting, Stell. Gives me an idea…”

“You can keep your idea and smoke it. I already did it.”

Booker looked at Stella, cocking his head to one side. The Stella he thought he knew turned out to be the Stella that stole a million bucks’ worth of diamonds that night.

“I went to the Murtaugh house. Picked the back door lock. Got the diamonds. Made my escape.”

“Wait!” Booker jumped out of bed and paced the floor. “Where were they? Where are they now? What the hell…”

“Sit down and listen, Book. I’m tellin’ you ain’t I?”

“Yeah. Ok. I need the details, Stell.”

“Kenny was braggin’ to Lola how he was about to be rich on account of knowin’ where the diamonds were. Book,” Stella leaned in and got face to face with Booker, “they were in an aquarium!”

Booker sat back and frowned. Aquarium. That rang a bell.

“The fish were dead, so I flushed ‘em. Poor things. Then I drained the water and toted the aquarium back to the office. You were upstairs, snorin’ loud enough to wake the dead.”

“I don’t snore that much,” Booker said. I probably do. Too much gin.

“I start diggin’ through the colored rocks at the bottom of the tank. The colored rocks do a great job of disguisin’ the diamonds, Book. You can’t hardly spot ‘em unless you lay out all the rocks and sift through ‘em.”

“Sure, sure. Everyone knows that.”

“Don’t be sarcastic. It looks bad on you.”

“Just finish the story.”

“So stop interruptin’ me. I fill up the tank with clean water and hook up the filter. Got a coupla goldfish the next day. Them diamonds have been there for a month, Book. Everyone sees the goldfish but no one sees the diamonds.”

“Including me,” Booker said, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“Including you.”

Booker nodded. He got up and took a shower. A long one. When he came out of the restroom, the sun was starting to rise. Stella made her way to the shower. Thirty minutes later she emerged, sans make-up but looking all the more lovely for it.

Booker opened a jar of instant coffee and made them each a cup. He didn’t have any milk but he had some sugar. Stella accepted the sugar. Booker drank it black. He took a sip, grimaced, and added sugar.

“So what do we do now?”

“I already told you, Book. Come with me. We got money now.”

“I’m goin’ to Florida.”

Stella gazed at Booker and smiled.

“I been makin’ inquiries. Found a nice house for sale in The Keys. Not too big, not too small. There’s a bar for sale about a hundred yards away. The house’ll cost four grand. The bar, three. The owners of the house and the bar are tired of paradise. They wanna buy a place in Las Vegas.”

Book digested this information.

“How much are them diamonds worth?”

“About a million, but we’ll get $200,000 for ‘em. I got a cousin in San Diego that deals in this sort of thing.”

“Really? You never told me that.”

“I don’t tell you a lot of things, Book.”

“Why not?”

“You never ask.”

“Ok, Stell. But why? Why do ya’ wanna be with me? I drink too much, I apparently snore too much, I don’t pay enough attention to you, and I guess I’m pretty selfish.”

“Yeah. You’re all of those things. But you pay me twice the goin’ rate for a third-rate secretary. And you’re always honest with me.”

“Is that enough for you?”

“’course it is. I’m a woman livin’ in a man’s world.”

Booker scratched his chin. He hadn’t bothered to shave the stubble this morning.

“We should change our names. Who do you want to be?”

“I’m partial to Grace. Grace Chandler. Sounds classy. How ‘bout you?”

“Dunno.”

“I see you as a Conrad. Good name for a bartender. People could call you ‘Con.’ Solid name.”

“I gotta guy who does fake I.D.’s. Expensive, but worth it.”

“Ok. Well, let’s hit the road, Con.”

Booker blinked in surprise.

“Right now?”

“Yep. Our clothes are already in your car. I packed ‘em when you fell asleep.”

“I didn’t hear a thing.”

“You’re good at not hearin’ things, Con.”

“You gonna nag me for the rest of my life?”

“Just until I make a decent human being out of you.”

“Good luck.”

“I got time.”

The couple got in the car and sped away, not sorry to leave San Francisco and its charms behind. Stella/Grace put on lipstick while Booker/Conrad navigated the journey south.

“Say,” Booker spoke up suddenly, “that house. It have a porch?”

“Nope.”

“So…”

“Call me Grace from now on, Conrad. We need to get used to our new names.”

“So, Grace. I need a porch.”

“And I need a white picket fence.”

Grace held up a diamond and studied it in the morning light. The sparks were brilliant cold fire. She held it out for Conrad to see.

“There’s your porch, and my fence.”

“I might be in love with you, Grace.”

“Don’t start lyin’ to me now, Con.”

Conrad drove a few more miles, something still bothering him.

“I wonder who killed the Murtaughs.”

“Shut up and drive.”