Richard Deming
Die a Little
The first thing I noticed was her curves. Not that they were unusual either in number or softness, though they rated better than average on both counts. It was their behavior which fascinated me. They flowed as she walked.
I have watched women in high heels walk fast many times, and even the most streamlined tend to jiggle like a plate of jelly. But this woman’s heels striking the tile floor created not a single jiggle. She moved with as much oiled grace as though she were strolling barefoot instead of nearly trotting on three-inch heels. Her curves were dynaflow.
When it occurred to me if she kept moving straight toward me, she was bound to notice my preoccupation, and might resent it, I raised my eyes to her face.
And I got another surprise. Though she was a complete stranger, her expression was one of soulful delight at joining the one man in the world she loved.
She was beautiful, clear from the tip of her finely chiseled nose to the carmine tinted nails which peeped from her open-toed pumps. Her complexion was milk white, its whiteness stressed by jet black hair which framed her face in a long, pageboy bob. Her eyes were wide spaced and deep blue, and her only makeup was a vivid lipstick which matched the color of her toes.
Her figure equalled her face. It was her real figure too, without benefit of elastic support.
I was seated on a stool with my back to the bar, sipping a rye and water and idly gazing over the Sheridan’s cocktail hour crowd, when she entered. Her progress across the floor was so fast, I didn’t even have time to rise like a gentleman before she grasped my free hand in both of hers and breathed, “Darling, did I keep you waiting long?”
“Only all my life,” I breathed back, and then I noticed the man behind her.
Even before I spotted him, I should have realized it was not my beauty which plopped such a lovely gift in my lap. While not exactly revolting, even the kindest flatterer could only describe my face as battered. Once, before I learned all the tricks of dirty fighting ever invented, I stuck it in front of a brass knuckle duster, with the result I have a permanently bent nose and one eyelid which droops slightly. I don’t automatically repel women, but neither do they routinely single me out from a bar full of men. Not for romance anyway.
Her choice of me was for protection, I reluctantly decided after looking over her pursuer. And it didn’t swell my ego to suspect she had picked me for my lack of beauty, probably in the hope that my face would scare off her bogey man.
The man stopped when the woman and I exchanged greetings. He was a tall, lank individual with a cold gray face and smoky eyes deep set in dark circles.
Slipping from my stool in order to offer it to the lady with the curves, I deliberately kept my eyes on the man’s face. He returned my examination without expression, and finally gave a small shrug. The shrug was to let me know he was not impressed by my toughness, but was conceding the pot only because the Sheridan was jammed full of people.
Doing about-face, he disappeared through the street door.
“Thanks,” the girl said softly. “Thanks awfully.”
“You’re welcome,” I said. Since there were no vacant stools at the bar, I pressed between the one I had surrendered and the next one, and signaled the bartender for a drink. “I’m Manville Moon. Generally called Manny, unless you prefer to stick to darling.”
She smiled at rue, a smile not nearly as intimate as the first, but still friendly. “How do you do, Manny?”
The bartender arrived for our orders at that instant. I ordered my usual rye and water and she asked for straight gin with a water chaser. When the drinks came, she tossed hers off fast, made a face, and ignored the chaser.
“I’m Nina Darlene,” she said. “Not really, of course. That’s a stage name. I’m Doris Schwenk back in Centerville, Iowa, but Nina Darlene in the theater.”
I searched my memory for the name Nina Darlene, but drew a blank. “You’re an actress?” I asked.
“Cabaret. Not local. I’m from Chicago, but I start two weeks at the Golden Palms this Saturday.”
Again I searched my memory. I came up with a dim recollection of a dim but expensive night club which featured a floor show of naked women and an M. C. who didn’t mind a funny joke as long as it was dirty.
“Chorus girl?” I pursued.
She looked disdainful. “The feature act.”
“Oh. A stripper.”
Her nose elevated indignantly. “I am not! My act is an expression of artistry!”
Since all strippers insist they are guilty of art, I didn’t argue with her. “I’m sure it is,” I said soothingly. “Now let’s change the subject to who the guy is you were running from.”
She gave me a steady and decidedly less friendly look, but when she finally spoke, I discovered it was not my question about her pursuer which disturbed her.
“I am not a stripper,” she said. “No one, not even Sally Rand, ever had an act as purely artistic as mine. You drop in at the Golden Palms next Saturday and see.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it,” I told her. “I flunked art appreciation in high school, so I couldn’t possibly distinguish art from ordinary bump and grind. But to get back to the villain I saved you from...”
Her expression grew completely unfriendly and she let me look at her profile.
“Who is probably waiting for you outside,” I continued after a pause.
Her eyes jumped back to my face and her expression grew friendly again. “You deserve an explanation, I suppose,” she conceded.
When I merely waited, she went on, “His name is Jet Chard, and he has some kind of business connection with my husband. He was trying to kidnap me and take me back, I think.”
“Back?” I inquired.
“Back to my husband. He’s a rotten beast.”
“Jet Chard?”
“My husband, Gerald Patton, I left him in Chicago a week ago, and I suppose he sent Jet to try to drag me back by force. I didn’t wait to find out when Jet suddenly jumped out of a taxi a few minutes ago and started after me. I simply ran in here.”
Thoughtfully I considered the intimate manner in which she had greeted me for Jet Chard’s benefit.
“Look, Nina,” I said. “I don’t mind rescuing beautiful damsels from ogres, but I’ve no desire to become corespondent in a divorce suit.” I contemplated her moodily, then continued. “All you have to do is holler copper. Kidnapping is a federal offense.”
She gave a delicate shiver. “Gerald would kill me. He’s a — well — kind of a racketeer. He and Jet both. I’m frightened to death of both of them. Not only for myself, but for Henry too.”
“Henry?”
“Henry England. He’s a dear friend of mine who helped me escape from Gerald.” She added quickly, before I could get a wrong impression, “Just a friend. He’s old enough to be my father. I’m sure Gerald must have guessed it was Henry who helped me escape. I’m deathly afraid that if he catches Henry, he’ll kill him or have Jet kill him. Henry drove me here from Chicago and lent me enough money to last until I got an engagement. I didn’t have any money because Gerald took it all, you see.”
“I see. And where is Henry now?”
“I suppose he went back to Chicago. Would you be kind enough to take me home?”
I grinned at her. “I’ll be kind enough to call you a police escort. You’re an interesting gal in a slightly insane sort of way, but why should I get a couple of Chicago hoods mad at me?”
She pouted. “I suppose chivalry is too much to expect these days.”
“From me it is,” I assured her. “I’m a private investigator and I specialize in bodyguarding. You sound too much like a busman’s holiday.”