I nodded.
“And you don’t, I suppose, have even a guess as to who he might be?” I said.
“If I did, you think I wouldn’t have already told you? What kind of dumb jerk question is that?”
“The kind if you don’t ask, you feel like a fool when it comes out that you should have asked.”
“No, I don’t know the guy. I don’t recognize his voice. I don’t have any idea who he is.”
“Any letters?”
She shook her head. The martini was gone. She gestured at the waitress.
“No.”
“Get any recordings of his calls?”
“No.”
“Not on any answering machines, or anything?”
“I don’t have answering machines,” Jill said. The waitress brought her a third martini. I didn’t have too much longer before talking with her would be useless.
Jill giggled. “I don’t know how they work.”
“You get any fan letters that seem odd?” I said.
“They’re all odd,” Jill said. “I mean, for crissake, fan letters.”
“Any unusually odd?”
“I don’t know. I don’t read them. Ask Sandy.”
“Sandy reads them?”
“Sandy, or some girl in the office. I don’t have time for it. Somebody reads them and writes up a little cover, saying how they sound. You know? If there’s a trend.”
“Do you read that?” I said.
“No, they send it to my agent.”
“Whose name is?”
“My agent?”
“Un huh.”
“Why do you want my agent’s name?”
“So I can talk with him,” I said. “See, I’m a detective. That means I make an attempt to detect what’s going on, by asking questions. By looking for, ah, clues. Stuff like that.”
“You’re making fun of me,” Jill said.
“One would have to have a heart of stone…” I said.
“I get you in bed; I’d show you something,” Jill said. She got another cigarette and leaned toward me while I lit it, her eyes fixed on me in a look that, I think, was supposed to make my blood race.
“What’s your agent’s name?” I said.
She leaned back and blew smoke out at me in disgust.
“Ken Craig,” she said.
“He in L.A.?”
“Yes.”
“How about relationships? Any that have ended lately?”
“Relationships?”
“Yeah. Marriages, lovers, business arrangements, anybody that you’ve cut loose that might be mad at you?”
Jill was holding the martini glass in both hands and resting it against her lower lip. She gazed at me over it, her eyes closed a little so that she had a smoky look.
“There are things a girl doesn’t talk about to a man,” she said.
“Aren’t you the same woman who expressed an interest in something this long?” I said. I made the measuring gesture with my hands.
Her eyes widened and seemed to get brighter. The rim of her glass was still pressed, against her lower lip; the tip of her tongue appeared above it and darted laterally, back and forth.
“Maybe I did,” she said.
“And now there’s things a girl doesn’t discuss with a man?” I said.
She tilted the martini glass up suddenly and drank the rest of it in a long swallow. She put the glass down with a thump and stood up.
“I’m going to bed,” she said.
The brightness left her eyes and they seemed unfocused now.
“I’m not saying another word to you. I’m going to bed.”
“My loss,” I said. She walked toward the elevator without another sound. I glanced at the bartender. He spread his hands, palms down in a don’t-worry-about-it gesture. I left my beer half drunk and followed her out.
Chapter 9
AT 6:10 the winter morning was as bright as a hooker’s promise and warmer than her heart. The temperature was already in the thirties and by noon the plowed streets would be dark and glistening with snow melt. I was in the lobby of the Charles Hotel, fresh showered, clean shaven, armed to the teeth, and dressed to the nines: sneakers, jeans, a black polo shirt, and a leather jacket. The collar of the polo shirt was turned up inside the collar of the jacket. I took off my Ray-Bans to see if I could catch another glimpse of myself in some lobby glass, but there wasn’t any. I’d have to live on memories till we got to a mirror. I could go outside and look at myself in the smoked glass windows of the Lincoln Town Car parked out there, but the slight curve of the window enlarged things, and when you’re a fifty regular you don’t want enlargement.
At the far end of the lobby a solitary desk clerk shuffled paper behind the counter. A tall guy with rimless glasses was admiring the huge floral display in the middle of the lobby. Faintly, I could smell coffee, as, in the recesses of the building, the kitchen began to crank up for breakfast. Past the floral display, to the left of the wide staircase, an elevator door opened and Jill Joyce came out, along with a bulky black man in a blue blazer. The black man carried a walkie-talkie. He nodded when he saw me and moved away, and she was mine for the day.
Jill was wearing jeans which appeared to have been applied with a spray gun, high emerald boots with three-inch heels, a white blouse unbuttoned to exactly the right depth of cleavage. She had her black mink coat thrown over her shoulders. Until you got very close she looked as if she weren’t wearing any make-up. Close up I could see that she was, and that it was so artfully applied that it gave the illusion of fresh-faced innocence, with a touch of lip gloss. She was carrying an alligator bag that was either a large purse or the carrying case for a small tuba. She handed it to me.
“Good morning, cute buns,” I said.
“I was hoping you’d notice.”
We went out through the revolving door. The tall guy with the rimless glasses went out through the swinging doors to the left of the revolving door and when we reached the sidewalk he said, “Miss Joyce.” Jill shook her head.
“Not now,” she said. “I’ve got a six-fifteen call.”
He moved very smoothly for a geek, and he was in her path and saying, “Miss Joyce, Mr. Rojack wishes to speak with you.”
I moved between Jill and the tall guy. “What is your wish?” I said to Jill.
“I want to go to work,” she said.
“Miss Joyce prefers to go to work,” I said to the tall guy.
The tall guy’s voice flattened out like a piece of hammered tin.
“Buzz off,” he said.
“Buzz off?” I said. “Buzz? Off? Which one are you? Archie? Or Jughead?”
The tall guy’s face reddened, but not enough. He was very pale with short white-blond hair and a big Adam’s apple. He put one hand, his left, gently on my chest.
“Just back off, cowboy,” he said. “You don’t know what you’re getting into.”
I didn’t like him putting his hand on me, but defending my honor was not the first order of business here.
“Let’s go,” I said to Jill.
I moved to the left of the tall guy, keeping Jill behind me. My car was parked on the walkway, back of the limo with the tinted windows. As we moved, one of the windows slid silently down and a guy with a fine profile looked out.
“Randall,” the guy with the fine profile said, “get rid of him.”
The tall guy smiled. The hand on my chest slid over and gripped my leather jacket. He started to turn his left hip in toward me when I kneed him in the groin. He grunted and started to sag. I turned my left shoulder in on myself and brought up a left uppercut that straightened him against, then bounced him off the car. His head banged against the edge of the car roof and he slid down the door and sat with his legs sprawled in front of him on the cold brick of the hotel turnaround.
Behind me Jill said, “Jesus,” softly.
I bent and looked into the car at the man with the profile. He wasn’t showing it to me. He was showing me full face, and there was a gun in his hand.
“Wow,” I said. “A Sig Sauer, just like the cops are getting.”