I thought of the man’s cruelty to his wife and made a neutral comment: “He’s an impressive man.”
Madeleine said, “Diplomat. He’s a hardcase, tightwad Scotchman son of a bitch, but he’s a man. You know how he really made his money?”
“How?”
“Gangster kickbacks and worse. Daddy bought rotten lumber and abandoned movie facades from Mack Sennett and built houses out of them. He’s got firetraps and dives all over LA, registered to phony corporations. He’s friends with Mickey Cohen. His people collect the rents.”
I shrugged. “The Mick’s thick with Bowron and half the Board of Supervisors. You see my gun and handcuffs?”
“Yes.”
“Cohen paid for them. He put up the dough for a fund to help junior officers pay for their equipment. It’s good public relations. The city tax assessor never checks his books, because the Mick pays for the gas and oil on all his field agent’s cars. So you’re not exactly shocking me.”
Madeleine said, “Do you want to hear a secret?”
“Sure.”
“Half a block of Daddy’s Long Beach houses collapsed during the ’33 earthquake. Twelve people were killed. Daddy paid money to have his name expunged from the contractor’s records.”
I held Madeleine out at arm’s length. “Why are you telling me these things?”
Caressing my hands, she said, “Because Daddy’s impressed with you. Because you’re the only boy I’ve ever brought home that he thought was worth spit. Because Daddy worships toughness and he thinks you’re tough, and if we get serious he’d probably tell you himself. Those people weigh on him, and he takes it out on Mother because it was her money he built that block with. I don’t want you to judge Daddy by tonight. First impressions last, and I like you and I don’t want–”
I pulled Madeleine to me. “Be still, babe. You’re with me now, not your family.”
Madeleine held me tightly. I wanted to let her know things were copacetic, so I tilted her chin up. Tears were in her eyes; she said, “Bucky, I didn’t tell you all of it about Betty Short.”
I gripped her shoulders. “What?”
“Don’t be mad at me. It’s nothing, I just don’t want to keep it a secret. I didn’t like you at first, so I didn’t–”
“Tell me now.”
Madeleine looked at me, a stretch of sweat-stained bedsheet separating us. “Last summer I was bar hopping a lot. Straight bars in Hollywood. I heard about a girl who was supposed to look a lot like me. I got curious about her and left notes at a couple of places–‘Your lookalike would like to meet you’ and my private number at the house. Betty called me, and we got together. We talked, and that was it. I ran into her again with Linda Martin at La Verne’s last November. It was just a coincidence.”
“And that’s all of it?”
“Yes.”
“Then babe, you’d better prepare yourself. There’s fifty-odd cops canvassing bars, and if even one of them gets hold of your little lookalike number, you’re headed for a trip across page one. There’s not a goddamned thing I could do about it, and if it happens, don’t ask me–because I’ve done all I’m going to.”
Drawing away from me, Madeleine said, “I’ll take care of it.”
“You mean your Daddy will?”
“Bucky lad, are ye telling me you’re jealous of a man twice your age and half your size?”
I thought of the Black Dahlia then, her death eclipsing my shoot-out headlines. “Why did you want to meet Betty Short?”
Madeleine shivered; the red neon arrow that gave the flop its name blinked through the window and across her face. “I’ve worked hard at being loose and free,” she said. “But the way people described Betty it sounded like she was a natural. A real wild girl from the gate.”
I kissed my wild girl. We made love again, and I pictured her coupled with Betty Short the whole time–both of them naturals.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Russ Millard took in my rumpled clothes and said, “A ten-ton truck or a woman?”
I looked around at University squadroom starting to fill up with daywatch dicks. “Betty Short. No phone work today, okay, boss?”