My shadow fell across the brown-as-a-berry back of the nearest brunette, and I was just admiring the way tiny beads of sweat were pearling along the tiny wispy hairs of her neck, when she turned to look up at me, her breasts spilling out of the white-with-red-polka-dots bikini top, the whiteness of the pink-tipped flesh against the brown rest of her almost as startling as their swollen perfection.
And me on my honeymoon.
Her eyes were hidden behind white-framed, orange-lensed sunglasses, her hair pinned up in a bun, her lipsticked mouth making a scarlet O. “You’re not Mark,” she said.
“No, I’m not,” I said, taking off my hat.
She was just a little prettier than Susan Hayward.
Casually, with neither indignation nor shame, she returned her breasts to their polka-dot sheath, like a western gunfighter his sixguns to their holsters. She tried to tie the strap behind her, but had trouble.
“Do me,” she said.
That was the best offer I’d had all day.
I did her-that is, I got down and fastened the bikini and then she rolled over and looked up at me, kneeling over her. She was a shapely five foot five (lying down) with just enough plumpness to give her a ripe lush look.
“You have a nice face,” she said.
“Yours wouldn’t stop a clock.”
“You’re not an actor, though.”
“No?”
“You’re not in show business.”
“Not a flashy enough dresser?”
She took off her sunglasses and showed me her mahogany eyes and her well-tweezed ironically arching eyebrows and chewed the earpiece with tiny perfect teeth. “You dress all right. That’s a nice enough sportcoat.”
“Gee thanks.”
“You’re not an actor because you don’t look stupid.”
“Thanks again.”
“And you’re not an agent or a studio exec or anything, because that smile of yours?”
“Yeah?”
“It isn’t aimed at anybody. You’re just smiling ’cause you feel like it.”
I looked at her, then glanced around at the other sunning beauties, none of whom were paying us any heed. “It’s easy to smile here.”
“Easy for you. I’m Ann Thomson.”
“I’ve seen you in something.”
She tugged her bikini top into place, smirked a little. “You saw me in nothing, a minute ago. I’ve been in half a dozen movies… with about as many lines.”
“My name is Nate Heller.” It was warm, the sun really beating down, though not unpleasantly. “Does anybody ever go in for a swim, around here?”
“On rare occasions. Are you a cop?”
“Sort of. Does it show?”
“I thought I was starting to hear it. Why, ‘sort of’?”
“Private. Work with a fella named Fred Rubinski.”
“Ah! Sherry’s restaurant guy, who used to be a cop.”
“That’s right.” I glanced toward the other sunning beauties. “How many girls live here, Ann?”
“Varies. Sometimes as many as a dozen.”
“Do you pay rent?”
“Me in particular, or us girls in general?”
“Let’s start with you.”
“No. But I’m… close to Mark. Some of these girls pay Mark a minimal rent check.”
“Did Elizabeth Short?”
Her only reaction to that bombshell was to tilt her head. “I’ve been wondering when somebody would come around. Why do you want to know, if you’re a private dick?”
I liked the way she said “dick”-the simple pleasures. “I’m working for the Examiner. I was with the reporter who found the body.”
“Shit, sure! I saw your name in the paper. Give me a hand.”
I helped her up and I followed her over to a rattan liquor cart. She was a pleasure to follow, having a lovely well-rounded rear end, with deep dimples that peeked over the bikini bottoms, and legs like Betty Grable.
“What’s your pleasure?” she asked, pouring herself a martini from a pitcher.
“Rum and Coke,” I said, leaving the double entendres to her. She was testing me-not so much flirting, or being seductive, as to see if I was easily distracted… and to see how seriously I was taking her.
We sat on rattan chairs at a round rattan table under a yellow canvas beach umbrella and she sipped her martini and I sipped my rum and Coke.
“I’d rather not be quoted,” she said.
“I’m just doing background research.” I took off my hat, set it on the table. “I’m not a reporter.”
“Can you leave me out of it? By name I mean?”
“Sure. What can you tell me?”
“Not much, even though Beth roomed with me.”
“Roomed with you here, you mean?”
“Yeah.” She pointed to the second floor. “Beth dated a lot of guys, talked a lot about getting in the movies, maybe singing on the radio. I mean, Mark has all the right contacts, and she wanted to be in the floor show at the Gardens, of course… but other than that, I don’t think she tried that hard.”
“To make it in show business, you mean?”
“That’s right. Beth was… she was a loafer… lounging around the house, writing letters, reading movie magazines, painting her nails, futzing with her hair.”
“She didn’t lounge out here?”
“No-she came out for a dip, now and then, but she didn’t sunbathe. She liked to keep that skin of hers nice and pale and creamy.”
“When did she stay here? For how long?”
“A month or two… some time in August, till early October, when she took off for Chicago.”
I didn’t want to explore that any further.
“Who did she date, Ann?”
“Guys-any good-looking guy. A few famous ones.”
“Granny says she and Orson Welles were an item.”
She frowned over the rim of her martini glass. “You talked to Granny already?”
“Yeah, we’re old friends. He sent me up here.”
“Oh! All right, then.”
“So what about her and Welles?”
“Were they an item, you mean? Don’t know if I’d go that far. They were friendly, went out a few times. Did Granny tell you any of the names of the other actors she dated?”
“Yeah-Franchot Tone. Dagwood.” Suddenly I flashed on Elvera French mentioning an actress friend sending Beth Short some money. “You sent her money, didn’t you, Ann, around Christmas? Twenty-five bucks, wasn’t it? When she was staying in San Diego?”
Eyes expanding with surprise, she said, “What crystal ball are you looking in? How’d you know that?”
“Why was she borrowing money?”
“She just needed cash, that’s all.”
“It was for an operation, wasn’t it?”
The girl nodded, not looking at me.
“For an abortion?”
“She didn’t say… but that’s what I gathered.”
Going down this road was dangerous, but I had no choice. “Do you know what doctor she was using?”
“No-she said something about an old family friend, some doctor from where she was from, you know, New England.”
“How desperate was she for money? Was she turning tricks, Ann?”
“No! You’re getting the wrong idea-Beth may have been a little lazy, but she was a good girl-didn’t smoke, and barely drank… and you know, for all the dating she did, I don’t think she put out. I think that’s why Mark allowed Granny to fire her.”
“Granny fired her over her Italian boy friend, right?”
“Yeah. Good-lookin’ hood she had the hots for.”
“What’s his name?”
“ Excuse me,” a mellow yet knife-edged male voice interrupted.
The actress turned quickly toward the sound, alarmed, and I wheeled in my chair, to look at the source of the syrup-thick voice, myself.
He was perhaps five nine, a pear-shaped hundred and eighty pounds tied into a knee-length terrycloth robe with a gold ML monogram. Despite his access to the sun, Mark Lansom had that pasty look endemic to the perennial nightclub denizen, white hair slicked back, half-lidded blue eyes circled dark, a beaky nose, a weak chin and puffy, jowly face. He positioned himself beside Ann and looked witheringly down at her.
“Mark, this is Mr. Heller,” she said, a bit nervously, knowing she’d overstepped playing hostess.
“Nathan Heller,” I said, offering my hand. “I’m Fred Rubinski’s new partner.”