“Can’t get that same high in Bay Town? Because in a way, you’re an addict too.”
“Keep going, Liberty, I’m not nearly depressed enough yet.”
“So, Alice Jacoby goes to the Jade? But she told you she’d never heard of it.”
“The lady tonight was on drugs. Maybe she was mistaken. But she seemed pretty sure. And if so, Jacoby lied to me.”
“What would Jacoby be doing at the Jade?”
“She struck me as being pretty straight-laced, but sometimes it’s those very same ones who end up being the wild spirits.” He took out the vial he’d found in one of the rooms. “I got a pretty good idea what’s in here.” Callahan looked at it. “What?”
“Heroin. They bring it in from Mexico mostly.”
“So, what are you going to do now?”
“Sleep. I haven’t done a lot of that in the last couple days. Hey, can you do one thing for me? The gal checking people in at the Marses’ party?”
“Donna, what about her?”
“Can you talk to her and see if Lamb ever showed? I have to be really certain about it.”
“Sure, I can do that.”
She rose and sat on the arm of his chair, running a hand gently over his head, avoiding the bandaged part. “Is it really worth it, Archer? I mean, like you said, you make just a fraction of what I do standing up in front of a camera and regurgitating someone else’s words. And no one’s trying to kill me while I’m doing it. Hardly seems fair.”
“I’m reasonably good at being a PI, I enjoy the work, and I hope I’m doing a little bit of good.”
As he heard himself say these words, Archer wondered if any of them were really true.
She stopped rubbing his hair. “And if you end up getting killed?”
“Then you can miss me.”
She frowned. “That’s not funny. You’re the only real friend I’ve got.”
“Then you need to get out more.” He rose. “Go to sleep. You’re on set tomorrow. And I need my shut-eye. Things will look better in the morning.”
She stood and faced him. “How was her kiss?”
“I’ve had better.”
“Oh really? From who?”
He said, “You’ve already forgotten?”
“I didn’t forget, Archer. I plan on taking that memory with me for the long haul.” She kissed him on the cheek and left, shutting the bedroom door behind her.
Archer went over to the window and looked out.
Was it worth it?
He didn’t have a ready answer, which might have been an answer in itself.
Archer did not sleep much. Every dream he had did not end well for him.
Chapter 26
Archer heard a knock on his door at six thirty a.m.
Callahan called through the wood, “I’m heading to the studio for my early call, Archer. There’re eggs and sausages in the fridge and bread in the box, and I’ve got plenty of coffee. I’ll check with Donna about Ellie. And I’ll leave a note with the guard if you want to drop by the set later.”
“I’m sure he’ll be thrilled,” he called back. “So long as you’re in your toga.”
An hour later Archer rolled out of bed, showered, shaved, and dressed, and had two fried eggs, a sausage link, two pieces of buttered toast, and half a pot of coffee. And he was still feeling lethargic. It might have been the almost dying two nights in a row.
He had sponged his clothes off the best he could, but at some point he would have to drive to Bay Town and pick up clean stuff. And he could report in to Willie.
He phoned Green and Ransome at nine on the dot, and an efficient-sounding female voice answered. He asked for Cecily Ransome. She was not in, he was told. After he told her he had been hired by Ransome to locate Lamb, the woman told him to wait. When she came back on the line she said, “Mrs. Green would like to talk to you.”
“You mean Bart Green’s wife?” asked Archer.
“Is there another?”
The call was transferred and another woman’s voice came on. It was cultured with a bit of flame attached at specific intervals, noted Archer.
“I’m Mallory Green, Mr. Archer. Cecily spoke with me early this morning from her home and told me about her meeting with you and what you’re investigating. She is very concerned. And I’m very interested in this matter as well. Very interested. Ellie has become a good friend of mine.”
“Okay.”
“I’d like to meet with you. And I think you should speak with my husband as well.”
“All right. Is he in town?”
“No, he’s in Vegas, but I can have our pilot fly you there today in our plane, if you wish.”
Our pilot, our plane, thought Archer. It made one’s little mind go round and round about what some people called normal.
“Let’s talk and then we can go from there. Where would you like to meet?”
“At my home. I was just in the office this morning to check on a few things. I’m leaving now.”
“Let me have the address.”
He wrote it down. It was in Beverly Hills off Santa Monica Boulevard. The address sounded expensive and no doubt was.
He gave her time to get there and then got into his car and drove to her home. The rain was gone, and 1953 had its first day of sparkling California sunshine, at least through the dense smog, which was provided courtesy of all the smokestack and car exhausts huddled over them. He had taken off his head bandage, combing his hair straight over the wound, but redressed the one on his hand. At this rate, he might start looking like a mummy.
The Green estate was gated with a large G on the wrought iron just so no one would be confused. High prison walls encircled the place. There was a phone at the gate to call the house.
Archer duly called and the gates duly creaked open. It was a typical Beverly Hills mansion: impressive in both large and small detail, with lots of terraced lawns, formal flower beds, and greenery sculpted by strong, experienced hands, and none of them belonging to the owners. He wasn’t speculating about this. About a half dozen muscled Mexicans were hauling dirt in wheelbarrows, spading the earth, putting large bushes in holes, and making this particular Beverly Hills palace all hunky-dory.
There was a Greek revival thing going on with the home’s facade, and the round columns looked substantial enough to hold up the Treasury Department. The number and size of the windows was all LA, though, and impressive, allowing the potent sun to filter through and ignite whatever the interior looked like to new levels of grandiosity for the visitor. It had the standard large central block and two wings set at obtuse angles to the main. It looked like the imposing place was trying to reach out and hug him, an impression that was a bit off-putting.
He pulled in front of the house on a cobbled motor court with grass growing perfectly between the pavers, and stopped next to a gray-and-white Bentley. He got out and felt the other car’s engine. It was warm. Mrs. Green had arrived, in style. He wondered if she had driven herself. He doubted it, but maybe the lady would surprise him.
He knocked on the door and then stood there, his hat twirling between his hands. He was led inside not by a butler, but by a young woman in a dark blue pencil skirt, long-sleeved white blouse, and white pumps, with a thin strand of fake pearls around her slender, freckled neck. She had introduced herself as Sally Dennison, Mrs. Green’s personal assistant.
Well, that was progress over the aged, liveried statue at Alice Jacoby’s place, thought Archer. Maybe the fifties really were ushering in a whole new dawn of bright, personal minions in cheap heels and faux pearls.
Mallory Green was waiting in a large room that could have been anything, really, thought Archer, so long as it looked expensive.