“It’s nothing like that,” Prescott began, looking surprised.
But Hobart continued. “Because if you were to harm her, you would find that this place works kind of like a family. There are some relatives—distant cousins, you might say—that you haven’t met, and that you don’t ever want to meet.”
“I understand,” said Prescott. “I know you’ve got to be able to protect your workers.”
Hobart stared at him in silence for a second, his eyes never blinking. “I’ve got to say this clearly so we both know exactly what I’m talking about. It’s not just getting a couple of ribs kicked in, and losing some teeth. The cops wouldn’t find anything as big as the sole of your boot.”
“I’m not some kind of pervert, Dick,” said Prescott comfortably. “So neither of us has got anything to worry about.”
“I was pretty sure that was true,” said Hobart. “And I don’t mean to insult you. She came in a while ago because she goes on at one. I’ll take you back, and you can ask her yourself.”
Prescott followed Hobart through the door where he had seen him go with the two couriers a few times. The door led into a hallway of bare cinder blocks and a concrete floor with drains in it, lit by hanging bulbs with green metal shades. The only decorations were fire extinguishers at ten-foot intervals, and a four-foot-high, too expert drawing of a penis with Hobart’s face at the top and the words “Dick Hobart, Capitalist Tool” written across the testicles.
Along the outer wall were several doors. One was an office, two were staff rest rooms with posters on them giving dire warnings about washing hands before returning to work. There was one on the right that Prescott could tell led to the kitchen area, and then a short stretch of hallway that ended in a door with a star on it. Hobart didn’t knock. He said, “Wait here,” then opened the door and entered.
After a few seconds, he came out again, repeated, “Wait here,” and went back the way he had come. Prescott called, “Thanks, Dick,” before he had gone too far, and heard Hobart say, “Happy to help.”
A moment later, the door opened and Jean came out wearing an old, soft chenille bathrobe. She looked at him shyly. “Hi.”
“Hello, Jeanie,” said Prescott. “My name is Bob Greene, with an e at the end.”
She nodded, and her shy look tentatively grew into a small smile. “Nolan told me.” Then she said, “I noticed you watching me sometimes, and wondered who you were.”
Prescott said, “Now you know. I wanted to ask you if you might be willing to go out to dinner with me sometime.”
She put her head down, but her eyes were on him from beneath the glittering eye shadow. “You might be disappointed. When I’m not on stage, I’m really a pretty ordinary person.”
He grinned. “That’s what I was hoping. Ordinary people like to eat regular dinners in nice places, and don’t expect the rest of us to be too scintillating.”
She let his grin shift to her face. “I think I’d like to. When would it be?”
“I’m afraid I’ll have to limit it to tonight, tomorrow night, or any other night in the future,” he said. “Last night is out.”
“How about tonight, then?” she asked. “I’m only working until three, and I could be ready around seven-thirty.”
“Wonderful,” said Prescott. “Terrific. I’ll get a reservation for Cavender’s.”
“Cavender’s?” she repeated, her expression apologetic and maybe a bit regretful. “I’m flattered. I really am. But you’ll never get a reservation for Cavender’s at noon the same day.”
He looked down at his feet, then back at her and shrugged. “I already have the reservation,” he admitted. “I made it just in case you said yes.”
Her sad look disappeared, and a look came over her that was partly gratification that he would make a reservation at a famous restaurant just in case, partly pleasure that she was going to get to go, and partly an amused sympathy that he’d had to admit to being so eager. The sympathy made her response excessive, as though to protect him. “I’m so glad. I’d love to go there. What time is your reservation?”
“Eight-thirty, but I could try to change—”
“Perfect.”
“Where can I pick you up?”
She frowned. “My apartment, I guess. I’ll write down the address.” She disappeared behind the door, then came back with an address written on a Nolan’s Paddock Club napkin. She held it in her hand, but she didn’t hold it out to him.
He detected a tension in her eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“This is embarrassing,” she said. “But I hope you’ll understand. Can I see your driver’s license?”
He reached for his wallet and retrieved the Robert E. Greene license he had brought from home. “It’s a California license, but it’s got my picture on it.”
She glanced at it, pushed her napkin into his hand, and closed his fingers over it. “I’m sorry. It’s just something you have to do if you’re—”
“No problem,” he said, making his smile return. “If I were you, I’d do the same.” He glanced at the address, and saw that there was a telephone number too. “I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty, then.”
But he could see there was still something on her mind. He waited. “Would you do me one more favor?” she asked.
“Sure.”
“Would you mind . . . I go on at one. Would you mind not watching me work today? You can watch the other girls, I don’t mind. And it’s just for today. It would be kind of . . . distracting for me, and—”
“Say no more,” he said. “I’m on my way.” He gave her a warm smile and started down the hallway.
She called, “I heard the lunch is better down the street anyway.”
“I’ll let you know,” he said. On his way out, he passed the bar, smiled at Hobart, and gave a quick thumbs-up sign. Hobart nodded gravely, then looked down to spray soda into a customer’s scotch and slide the glass across the bar on a cocktail napkin.
As Prescott walked out into the sunlight, he assessed his progress and felt pleased. He was halfway in now, and the resistance was beginning to soften. The next part had to be done carefully.
26
The apartment complex looked like an island fortress surrounded by a lake of asphalt. There were low ramparts along the sides that held captive plants, but there were no trees. Prescott pulled up to the west end, parked the Corvette, and got out to look for the right staircase. Almost instantly he heard the click of high heels, turned, and saw Jeanie hurrying toward him.
She was wearing a simple black dress and small diamond studs in her ears, and carrying a tiny handbag. Her shining dark brown hair was pulled back in a tight coil that Prescott noticed was more than merely reminiscent of the style she had worn when she was taking off the business suit in Nolan’s. He felt a pang of sympathy for her: maybe it was her uniform to signal she was on her best behavior.
He stepped toward her, his expression anxious. “You didn’t have to wait outside for me.”
She paused about five feet from him, as though she were wondering how to get by him without touching him. “I didn’t want to make us late.”
He said, “You look terrific.” It wasn’t a lie. She had a pretty little face with large brown eyes that looked much better without the sparkling blue smears of eye shadow on the lids and the heavily rouged cheeks. Her figure was what she used to make a living, her one reliable asset, and the cut of the dress showed that she was confident about it, relying on it to make everything all right.
She disguised her need to stay five feet from him by using the distance to appraise him critically, looking at his suit, shoes, and tie. “So do you.” Then she made a sudden, evasive step to the passenger door of the Corvette. Prescott held it open for her, then went around the back of the car and got in. She seemed to have a list of questions she had decided to ask him, and she started as he drove. “I see you hanging out at Nolan’s during the day. What do you do for a living?”