“Can do,” Gus said after a pause. “Where are you now?”
“I’m still in my office.”
“Okay, Al. Wait there. I’ll call you back inna hour.”
Delaney wearily pushed the phone away. Elsie had regained her composure. She said contritely:
“I’m sorry, Al. I didn’t mean to carry on like that. I... I just couldn’t help it.”
“Don’t be sorry, baby,” Delaney’s voice was grim as he rose from her chair. His face was pale under the tan and his eyes glittered. He asked, “Just one thing — did that Eunice leave an address?”
“No, but she did give me a phone number where she can be reached.”
“Good.” Delaney went to the wash basin in the cloak closet. He tore off his tie and started to unbutton his shirt, then turned solicitously:
“Why don’t you take the rest of the day off—”
“Oh no,” Elsie protested. “I’m all right, Al.”
“Okay. Then go rest for a while and fix yourself up. When you get back, get Eunice on the phone. Have her here in the morning.”
When Elsie left the office, Delaney stripped to his waist, splashed cold water over his head and face. His face was bruised on one side, his teeth in his upper jaw ached with a dull throb and his body was mottled with angry red blotches where the hammer like fists had bruised his flesh. He took a sponge bath and dressed.
Delaney put the file drawers back in the cabinet and straightened up the office as well as he could without trying to sort and refile the papers. He loaded the .45, slipped on his harness and nested the gun under his arm. He had just finished when the phone in the reception room rang.
Gus wasted no words. “The big ape is a slob named Kostka — strictly strong arm. The gunsel is Ziggy Weitzel. Watch out for him. He’s got a monkey on his back and he’s unpredictable. I hear the boys are working for a syndicate — dope, smut and flesh. So be careful.”
“To hell with that. Where can I find them?”
“They hang around the Can-Can Club in Gardena. You can find them there any night after eleven.”
“Thanks, Gus. I’ll see you tomorrow or the day after.”
The address which Eunice had given Delaney was in Sawtelle. The street ran north from Santa Monica Boulevard a few short blocks to the Veterans’ Home. It was a street of old frame dwellings behind ancient palms, set in small, littered yards behind sagging picket fences.
Delaney cruised slowly along the street until he spotted the number Eunice had given him, then parked the Chrysler at the curb.
The house was a bungalow with board and batten sides almost hidden under lantana which mounted to its tar papered roof. A faded room for rent sign was in one front window. A covered porch sagged across the front of the house two broken steps above the ground.
Delaney entered the house and waited for his eyes to make their adjustment from the bright sun outside. Two doors, once white, faced each other from opposite sides of the dingy hall. One of them was labelled “Manager” in crudely drawn letters. He shattered the somnolent quiet with hard knuckles rapping on a loose panel in a door which rattled against its latch.
There was no response.
Delaney heard muffled sounds in the room, meaningless because they lacked the direction of motion. Then he heard the faint creaking of spring cushions protesting the slow shifting of imposed weight. He heard the dull thud of a hard object striking a thinly carpeted floor. Then the silence descended again. He swore under his breath and tried the door. It wasn’t locked.
The woman was fat, frowsy and drunk. She sprawled soddenly on an ancient davenport, glaring at Delaney with little pig eyes deep set in a bloated face. Thin strands of black, oily hair escaped from a bun loosely gathered on top of her head. A shapeless house dress rode above massive knees carelessly exposed. The woman made only a feeble effort to pull her dress down.
“To hell with it,” she said hoarsely. “Gimme a drink.”
Her eyes searched a lamp table at the end of the davenport littered with papers and bric-a-brac. She grunted with disappointment and looked at the cushion beside her where an ashtray lay face down in a Welter of cigarette butts. She muttered a curse and looked at Delaney.
“Where is it?” she asked helplessly.
Delaney closed the door and crossed the room. A half empty wine bottle had spilled the remainder of its contents on the worn carpet beside her feet. Delaney squatted in front of her and held up the bottle. He shook his head, “Too bad. It’s all gone, sister.”
The woman wiped her fore-arm across her mouth and pushed her hair back with a defeated gesture.
“More in the kitchen,” she grunted. “Gimme...”
Delaney found the bottle of cheap wine in a cupboard over the sink. He rinsed out a glass and took the wine and the glass back into the room. He half filled the glass and handed it to the woman.
She grabbed it eagerly, cupping the glass with both hands, and gulped the wine, spilling some of it past the corners of her mouth. When it was gone, she held out her arm.
“More,” she panted.
Delaney tilted the bottle towards the glass, then deliberately drew it back without pouring any. He said: “Ixnay. First we talk about Mavis Blair.”
The woman’s eyes followed the bottle, then came up to meet his. Her face was mottled and contorted with anger. She shoved out the glass and snarled, “Gimme a drink, dammit.”
Delaney drew the snapshot of Mavis from his pocket and held it out for the woman to see.
“Mavis Blair,” he said. “Where’d she move?”
The woman ignored the snapshot and gestured with her glass.
Delaney shook his head. “Come on — give. This babe lived here. Where’d she move?”
The woman squinted at the snapshot, wiping her mouth with her fore-arm again. She looked up blandly at Delaney and grunted, “Never seen her.”
He snorted and waited until his anger subsided a little then carefully poured two fingers of wine into her glass.
“Take another look,” he suggested evenly, holding the snapshot just beyond the woman’s reach.
“To hell with that,” the woman snarled, squinting at the wine while she tilted the glass back and forth to gauge the amount. Suddenly she drew back her arm and flung the glass at Delaney’s head.
“Gimme the bottle,” she cried hoarsely.
Delaney ducked in time to avoid catching the glass with his face. He set the wine bottle on the table and grabbed the woman’s wrist as she reached for it. He jerked her erect on the davenport and swung his other arm from the shoulder. His open hand smacked across her face with a resounding slap.
“Let’s stop horsing around,” he said flatly. “We’re going to talk about Mavis Blair. Where’d she move?”
The woman spat at him and hurled the ashtray. She lurched to her feet, cursing obscenely, and came at him with fingers hooked like talons.
Delaney knocked her arms down and pushed her back onto the davenport. He rocked her head back and forth with hard, stinging slaps then crossed her wrists, pinning them together with one hand while he raised the other ready to strike. He thrust his face close to hers, his lips skinned back from clenched teeth, and his voice cut like a whip.
“Wise up. Either you talk, or I’ll slap you silly!”
Panting from her exertions, the woman glared defiantly at him until the cold menace in his eyes reached her wine soaked brain. Then she quailed and her eyes veered to the bottle on the table.
“Not yet,” Delaney snapped, moving the bottle out of her reach. He held up the snapshot again. “Let’s talk about Mavis.”
“That tramp,” the woman grunted. “She’s moved. How do I know where she’s gone?”
“How long ago?”
“Week — two weeks. I dunno. Her rent was paid ’til a Saturday. Then one day in the middle of the week she’s gone. So what.”