Irene never had to sit that night. As soon as the big blond Swede-or, as Phil called her, “the woman with incredible tits”-walked through the doors, she was accosted by at least a dozen men and chose two and then chose another two and so on. Her dance card was filled for hours, while the Leushay woman sat on a hard seat and drank bottles of Coca-Cola and chain-smoked cigarettes and gave wan smiles to the blonde as she made her way across the dance floor as large as four basketball courts. By the time Irene was tuckered out, maybe two hours later, she’d convinced some nervous, sputtering gent to give Miss Leushay a solid try while she was cooling her heels. And that was about the time that Miss Leushay’s side of the story ended and the op’s interview of Irene Morgan took over.
Irene had just come back from the ladies’ room and was making her way back to the floor, refreshed and ready for more songs, another twirl, a broad shoulder on which to lay her head, bootleg booze from a flask passed underhand to her. But this odd fellow tapped on her shoulder, much too old for her tastes, maybe about fifty or so. Dark skin and gray hair. She found it odd that the man wore a hat indoors. He asked for a dance and she politely refused, but the man pretended not to understand her accent and grabbed her rough by the elbow and took her for a twirl anyway. She recalled his breath smelling of cigarettes and mint, part of an ear missing, and him not talking much, being a horrible dancer, and finally landing her back where she started, where a much younger man with neatly oiled hair bowed to her and kissed her hand.
Say, didn’t that fella who jumped you in the tunnel have part of an ear missing?
Sam nodded and kept reading.
Irene was halfway through another song when she realized she’d seen the older man before at the Hall of Justice. He’d asked her for the time. Irene put off the whole affair, until it was midnight and Miss Leushay was bored again and worried the girls could get into some kind of trouble with Judge Louderback. Irene said her good-byes to the men, getting a purseful of business cards, finding it strange how many American men, especially shorter ones, had no problem dancing close, head upon her bosom like a child.
She’s kidding, right? I bet they were like soft pillows.
She was a bit drunk and tired when the older, dark man pulled to the curb in a new machine, a long green touring car, and asked the girls if they’d like a ride back to the hotel. She couldn’t even reply before Miss Leushay hopped in the backseat of the car and motioned for Irene to come on, Irene staggering from the curb and crawling inside, the car moving down Geary, heading down to O’Farrell, and dropping Miss Leushay at the Manx. Miss Morgan said she thought she was on the way back to the hotel when the man did something very kind.
“He offered me candy,” she said in The Call. “He said it was homemade.” Didn’t her mother tell her better? Candy? Jesus.
She didn’t know she was only a few blocks away from the Golden West. For all she knew, she could’ve been on the other side of the city. But the man kept them moving around in circles, up a street, down a street, a long ride along the Embarcadero, and then a long march up Market and back again, circling Union Square four times. She told the man she was beginning to feel a bit odd, a little queer, and he recommended she try some orange juice, slowing at the first drugstore, maybe the Owl. Miss Morgan ran inside, had a small glass, and then stumbled back to the car. She had the back of her hand against her forehead, as they drove some more, the very motion of the machine making her ill, and finally pleaded for the man to take her back to the hotel that very instant. He said some more candy would settle the stomach.
“And so I ate several pieces,” she said.
At the Golden West, she got out fast, knowing the man would want to walk her to the door. But he stayed in the machine, only letting down the driver’s window of the long green automobile and smiling at her. The smile was what struck her as odd and she wandered to him, cocking her head, and waiting for him to say what he had to say.
He smiled more.
“What?”
He looked her dead in the eye and said, “Go to hell.”
Irene covered her mouth with her hand, stumbling into the lobby, but never made the elevator. The last thing she recalled was collapsing in a heap and the bellman calling for a doctor.
How is she?
Docs gave her oxygen. Whatever was in that candy didn’t sit too well with her. We got an office pool going. You want in?
“THEY’RE CALLING FOR another witness,” McNab said, leaning over the table to talk to Roscoe. Roscoe was seated but turned around to tell Minta and Ma. Minta had on a blue dress and fringed hat. He’d never noticed that much about what she wore, but it sure was reported every day in the papers. Everyone wanted to know what the famous Minta Durfee wore to court as she stood beside her man. Roscoe decided he liked the blue, while watching Minta whispering in Ma’s ear. She had to whisper twice because Ma was deaf as a post.
“Who’s up?” Roscoe said, folding his hands over his stomach.
“Your pal,” McNab said, “Fishback or Hibbard, or whatever he calls himself.”
“Thought that wasn’t till later this week?”
McNab shrugged.
“That sick nurse gonna be okay?” Roscoe asked.
McNab shrugged again. “Do I look like a goddamn doctor?”
McNab approached the bench, and Louderback nodded and answered a few questions. McNab said hello to Brady and Brady just eyed him and turned on his heel. McNab laughed at that, walked back, and took a seat beside Roscoe, the jury trailing in as chipper as a funeral dirge.
“Do they always have to look so solemn?” Roscoe asked in McNab’s ear.
“Quiet,” McNab said and began a fresh sheet of paper for notes. “I didn’t call this son of a bitch.”
There were more whispers and loud talking. Jurors sat up straighter and notebooks appeared in their laps. Freddie was brought in from a side door and placed on the stand, where he stood and raised his hand. He was dressed to the nines-blue aviator jacket, crisp pleated trousers, and polished riding boots. His black hair had been oiled just so, and, as he turned, his profile looked like a silhouette from Photoplay.
Roscoe stared right at him. Fishback caught the stare and kept his eyes on Brady, who got the jury up to speed on who Fishback was, what he did, that he did indeed drive up to the city with Roscoe in September, all that business.
“And you directed Mr. Arbuckle in several moving pictures?”
“No.”
“But he is a friend of yours?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve known him for how long?”
“Since ’16, somewhere around there.”
“Where were you born, sir?”
“Romania.”
“And you took the name Fishback why?”
“I thought it was funny. It makes you think of the bones of a fish.”
The court laughed. Mainly women. Roscoe always kept Freddie around because his dark looks and athletic shoulders could pull some tail. Roscoe wrote on a piece of paper, “Why was he called?” He passed the paper over to McNab, who wrote back, “I am not of the psychic arts.”
Roscoe leaned back in his seat.
“Did you see Miss Rappe ill?”
“Yes.”
“And what did you think when you saw her?”
“I thought she’d had too much to drink.”
“So you tried to help her?”
“Yes.”