Niska talked all in a rush. She was so excited that I got a little worried. That’s why I pulled up a chair and asked, “What’s the plan from here?”
“I need to make sure,” she said. “Doreen gave me five photographs of him. It wouldn’t take more than a glance, I don’t think. Just get a quick look.”
“So, you go to the cigar store...” I posed.
“Yeah.”
“What then?”
“I go in and look at him, see if he’s the one.”
“What’s your plan for that?”
Niska peered intently at me, the question in her eyes.
“I look at him and leave,” she said.
“No.”
“No?”
“You get dressed up and made up like you were going on a first date with a really fine guy. You wanna get him a cigar ’cause he likes to smoke ’em and you heard him say that he likes Cohibas.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a Cuban cigar.”
“But aren’t Cuban cigars illegal?”
“Now you’re starting to understand. You can’t just walk in and stare at the guy behind the counter and walk out. You got to be dressed up, to know what you’re lookin’ for. You walk in there checkin’ out the merchandise. You don’t even notice him at first. It’s only when he tells you that that brand is banned, or when he offers to sell you some contraband stock, that you look him in the face. You’re not there for him. You’re there to get your new man something he wants.”
Niska’s excitement was gone. Now she was concentrating on the intricacies of the job.
“So, so,” she wondered aloud, “I got to plan out how I go about it before going in there.”
“Exactly. When you walk into that shop, the only thing on your mind is cigars. Cuban cigars. Seeing the salesman’s face is no more than a necessary evil.”
“And should I buy a cigar if he offers one?”
“If you, and your client, can afford it.”
Nodding thoughtfully, she said, “So first, you think, I should do some research.”
“No question. Because if this guy’s a serious con man, he will see you looking at him for identification purposes. I promise you he will.”
“That means if he hears about my call to his rooming house, he might run. I might’ve messed up.”
“Water under the bridge, honey. Get the job set in your head, and then, tomorrow, go to the cigar store.”
Nodding solemnly, she said, “I have to know everything before I go in there.”
“No.”
“No?”
“Look, Niska, there’s a thousand situations you can’t plan for. He might not be there. If he is, there might be another salesman that gets to you first. The sto’ could be closed. And you can’t rely on the information you got from a stranger over the phone. Your man might never have worked there.
“You can’t know everything. All you can rely on is a solid base to work from. Whether it works or it don’t, you follow the plan. You’re there to buy an original Cuban Cohiba for a potential boyfriend.”
“And why am I dressed up?”
“Because you’re a good-looking woman and this guy makes his livin’ off’a girls like you.”
“So, I’m kinda like bait?”
“You got a problem with that?”
“I don’t want to kiss him or anything.”
“Your client don’t want that either. But you don’t have to worry. You’re gonna be on the other side of the counter and you need his attention on anything but your intentions.”
“Oh my God.”
“What?”
“This... this is for real.”
“Yes, it is.”
Our assistant of many years sat back in her comfortable chair. Her face was as serious as a policeman’s battering ram about to knock down a suspect’s door. After a moment the determination she felt became tinged with a touch of fear.
It was then that I knew she’d make a good detective.
I went back to my office, took a shower in the master bathroom of the old-time mansion, and dressed in dark gray slacks, a nacreous white shirt with nearly transparent buttons, and a baby-blue sports jacket. The shoes were fabricated from dark blue leather.
The full-length mirror on the bathroom door told me that I was ready for my first date in fourteen months.
I parked in front of the only blue house on the eleven hundred block of South Genesee Avenue. It was a stone cottage with a faux thatched roof that rose high above the attic floor and curved downward to the tops of the high windows at the front of the house. The large stones that made the walls were painted a creamy blue and the lawn was perfectly manicured.
I’d made it about halfway up the cobblestone path leading to the front door when Ida Lorris came out wearing a loose yet alluring red dress that looked like a distant cousin of the kimono. Not a long gown, the hem came down only to the top of the overseer’s knees. One shoulder was bare and the other held up a thick strap of red cloth. The fabric wavered over her extraordinary figure without giving away anything.
“Hi,” she said, hurrying down the path in medium-blue high heels with no trepidation or wobble.
“Hey.”
We met there, at the halfway point.
“You look nice,” she complimented.
“And you look great.”
She smiled slightly and then asked, “Where we going?”
“A place called Minor’s.”
“Like coal miners?”
“No. It’s a family name using the possessive.”
“Okay,” she said.
I led her to a 1967 blue-black four-door Lincoln Continental that we kept in the building garage in case we were out on a job where we had to look good.
I drove west and north until getting to Mulholland Drive. About a mile up into the mountains we turned onto a dirt road and followed that, finally reaching a driveway that led to a large and rambling ranch house. The property was well lit and there was some activity. I drove up to the front of the house and my door was opened by an employee of Minor’s Restaurant. Ida’s door was also opened, and we were shown to the entrance.
To the left of the double-wide mahogany front door a big man sat on a huge chair that might have been made especially for his girth.
“May I help you?” the big man in the outside throne inquired. The tone of his voice carried a note of doubt.
“Rawlins,” I said with some emphasis. “Reservation for two.”
“You sure it was for Minor’s?”
This wasn’t like the little gray man at P9. Minor’s Restaurant was a truly exclusive establishment. They gave trouble to everybody but the most famous.
“You think I just got lost goin’ to Jack in the Box?” I replied.
“Do you have a word or two to substantiate the reservation?”
“Blue moon.”
Reluctantly the sitting man rose from the portable throne. He pushed the door open, and we were greeted by the horns, strings, and drums of big-orchestra, pre-bebop jazz. The room was large, the size of a small auditorium, and there were tables of many designs where at least a hundred people sat and talked. On a dais at the other side of the room, the jazz orchestra played.
“What is this place?” Ida whispered in my ear.
“It is what you see,” I answered. “How the other half lives.”
“Mr. Rawlins,” a throaty voice welcomed me.
“Hannah.”
“It’s so nice to see you. It’s been ages.”
“As a rule, this place is too rich for my blood,” I said to the hostess, who looked to be clad in a close-fitting frock of liquid silver. Her hair was golden and her eyes the blue of an ocean. The emerald at her throat could have bought a middle-class home and the diamond on her left forefinger might have purchased an entrée to mortal heaven.