Dime Detective

[JM]

It's another busy, dangerous, thrill-packed day and night in the
career of Manny Monroe, Private Eye. Place: Los Angeles. Time: 1949.
--

It was getting on past 6:30 one night in early May, and through the
venetian blinds, the Frolics Lounge neon across the way was starting
to play games with the shapes of things on my desk--like the phone
when it rang; I had to reach for it twice. When I took the fumbled
thing up from the friendly chat it was having with my blotter,
compliments of the Pasadena Loan & Trust Company; my coat was on, hat
was donned, I was done for the day but so long as I had the phone up
to my face anyway, I thought I might as well talk to it. "I was just
on my way out the door," I groused. "Monroe Agency, yeah."

I watched the fuzzy lines of my blinds shimmy over the wall, flashing
from one hue to the next as my hand closed over the pack of
Chesterfields in my coat pocket. I shook one out, taking it to my
lips. "Say," I said, "I'm real sorry to hear that." I nicked the tip
of a stick match, and while it flared, I said, "Call for an
appointment in the morning and -- " In flickering stripes of lime
colored light, I found the cord, freed it and went around in front of
the desk. I listened long enough to be amazed beyond my capacity to be
amazed at this hour, when I was long past late for a date to be out
smooching with the smooth, cool contours of my first highball of the
day.

"No. Not tonight. Impossible," I was resting on the edge of the desk
and swinging a foot as I continued listening to the outrageous
suggestion rattling around in my ear. I pulled the ashtray over closer
and raised that wrist for a look at my watch; no dice in that light,
so I pulled the bead-chain on the lamp. "Bainbridge." I said,
listening a bit. "Oh, the jeweler. Over there on Highland. Honored,
I'm sure." I took the phone between my jaw and shoulder, reached to my
vest pocket; got out pen and pad. "Uh-huh. I've seen the place. Yeah.
All right, but look. I want that retainer over here in my office by
9:30 tomorrow morning." I had to roll the phone away from my ear--
nearly knocked my hat off! "No, I don't think you're some penurious
rag-tail bounder. Sure, Bainbridge, sure," I said, finally getting
hold of the receiver. "I'll just bet you're good for it." Then I said,
"Fifty in front, thirty a day."
--
I took my usual table at the Frolics, and Mae, a charmingly well
preserved late-forties brunette in net stockings and a black taffeta
cocktail dress was there as usual to greet me with my double Cutty and
soda. And would I have my steak sandwich, slaw, fries and coffee as
always? What else? When it arrived, we had time for our customary
chat. "Runaway daughter," I said. "Gone off to make her living as a
taxi dancer, and Daddy wants her back."

"A taxi-dancer, you say?"

"Yeah. You know, one o' these dames working the dime-a-dance joints--"

"I know all about 'em."

"Well, what then?"

"Just remarking about it is all, ya silly schmuck. How old is she?"

"Mid-twenties, tall, blonde." I moved the scotch around in my mouth
like Listerine.

"Hah!" says Mae. "Sounds like a job for Superman."

"Yeah," I said, brushing her wrist with a finger as she lifted my
empty glass. "So make the next one light on the kryptonite, will ya
dear?"

"Well, you can't just kidnap her for the crissake." She put my glass
on her tray. "Or can ya?" She snapped her fingers. "Say! Tell you
what, Monroe. Try putting the snatch on me like that; see how good
y'are at it. Don't practice make perfect?"

After a taking a gander at the glint in my eye, and of the direction
my hand was headed, she stepped aside and waggled a finger. "Not in
front of the children!" She threw a glance over her shoulder toward
her husband Frank, the bartender and co-owner who was not watching.
Lucky me.
--
There's a lot of things you can say about a '47 Plymouth coupe, but
since I may be speaking in mixed company, I'll keep it clean, just to
mention how mine's got a little ship on the horn button which is cute;
very, very cute; it's got plaid seat-covers, oh let me tellya, plaid
to beat the band and on top of all that, it's a two-tone job of black
over rust red. What's more, I finally managed to get the lousy little
wreck backed into a spot, middle of the block smack across the
boulevard from the said dime-a-dance joint in question.

I don't know why I told Bainbridge I knew the place, because now as I
sat looking over those vacant store fronts, and to that sign
sprinkling its bulb-lit "Stardust" over the buzzing blue arrow
pointing up, up, ever up a stairwell to the second floor, I knew
myself once again for a person who is not always the tallest tower of
truth in town. But in this business, being a highly practised b.s.
artist is among the chief qualifications for the job. And I am highly
qualified.

A curtain of glass beads between the upstairs landing and the big band
blown inner sanctum parted, and going through the tinkling shroud, I
was almost surprised to find by the look of the place, it was not so
seedy as the low rent frontage would lead you to expect. Of course, in
a lack of light, things can be painted up real pretty by no more than
a few deft, dark strokes of shadow.

Bainbridge had given me a fairly complete description of the girl,
which under better illumination would have made her pretty easy to
spot, but now as I looked to my left over the red velvet cord
separating the walkway from a line of chairs and the girls lounging on
or around them over against the far wall, I could see the job was
going to be a bit more dicey than I'd expected.

All along to my right, pictures of Hollywood starlets were pinned,
glossy black & white portraits of Hayward, Harlow, Hayworth, Garbo and
Grable; think of any screen star named, "Leigh" and she was there,
pinned like a butterfly, or if not, then she was sure to be seen over
across the way in a gallery of movie posters on that wall.

"Say! What-cha tryin' to do there, Hotshot? Grab on to a girl?"
Without a thought, my arms had reached out in the dark, hands coming
to cool, soft flesh; to somebody's lace-edged arms glowing as if
moonlit. "Hey!" I said, "Where'd you come from?"

"Go on!" I heard a crack of gum, Doublemint by the scent of it.
"Wouldn't ya like to know." Those same arms had taken mine, urging me
to turn, and before I knew what, this gum-cracking little jitterbug
had Lindy-hopped me around in step to the Gene Krupa/Anita O'Day
'killer diller' playing out on the floor. Why, this little frail had
crowded me right back to the wall, till there, her face was lit under
glow of a spot reflecting from a photo of Veronica Lake. I tell you it
near made the drawers of my heart fall to my knees, a face so
uncommonly pretty as that. But I wasn't about to let this dame think--
or know--she had the drop on me. That's about the first move you
better learn in this game. I said, "Lookit here baby, just because
you're the most beautiful thing I've set eyes on, off the cover of
Modern Screen, ain't no call for you to be getting in the way of a
man's business--is it?"

She cracked twice, chewed one real silent like, took a beat and said,
"Well, ain't you somethin'? A business man who is out on some big
business." She started tapping me where some other fellows might have
pinned a boutineer. "Well, let me tell you, Mr. Bedroom Eyes, the only
kinda business we got goin' here is dancin'. If you're here for some
of that, at a dime a fling with a gal like me, then you are in
business." She grabbed my lapel, "Otherwise you are out of it." She
smiled like Bella Lugosi, showing me no sign of teeth while her eyes
drilled into mine. She had taken the other lapel, had me by both as
she came up close on tip-toe. "Oh, my goodness! They're green!"

I was about to fall over, or would've, was I one second the less, as
they say, 'three-minute' soft-boiled than I am; so I braced my
shoulders, stood my ground and said, "Huh?"

"Green Eyes. You never heard that Dorsey song, Jack? It's about my
favorite foxtrot in the box." She had me by the arm. "C'mon! We're
going for your tickets, daddy, a big, long string of 'em."
**
Where the partition fell away to the right, the space opened to the
ballroom, a big floor of gleaming black and white tile extending into
darkness beneath the obligatory constellation of mirrored balls. To
the immediate left were tables and booths in a surround about the
concessions counter. Down to our right, yellow light was doing its
best to ruin the starry night atmosphere as it shone from a ticket
booth, and this babe who had me by the arm was drawing me along toward
that. Not so it bothered me or anything, being shanghaied like this.
Say! I could hardly keep my peepers off the look of this doll, the way
she was dressed and all. It was enough to burn your eyes out: high-
heeled, ankle-strapped, red patent leather pumps; a shift of the
sheerest black chiffon, with a bodice cut just so as to allow
something from beneath of scarlet to whisper secrets, little lacy
hints of what the heart beating within might promise. And I must say
of the whole filmy noir affair, that it was hemmed so short you'd
swear the war was still on--but for two clues to the contrary: the
seams of her stockings were not drawn on with eyebrow pencil, they
were the real McCoy and of nylon too dark in shade to be anything
else.

We'd come to a stop in line behind two other guys at the ticket booth.
She still had me by my right arm, and by the feel of that grip she had
on me, I almost wondered if maybe she wasn't the county dogcatcher and
I was her mutt. "Say!" she said. "My name's Doris. What's yours?"

"Spot," I said. "Spot Monroe. And my bite is worse than my bark."
With her other hand she gave a swat to the same arm she held me by.
"G'wan! That's not your real name. You look a lot more like a 'Fido'
or a 'Rover'.

"Okay," I said. "Try Manny." She blinked and said, "Manny? Well,
alright, Manny, tell me what this business of yours is you're after
here." She took me by the other arm, tilted her head as her eyes
searched my face. "You look too skinny to be a cop." With a swoop of
that pretty arm, she had the hat off my head, saying, "So what are
you, aside from the the kind of bum who doesn't know enough to doff
his hat for a lady?" Since she was handing it back to me, I thanked
her. I said, "Thanks."

"Nothing to it," said with a crack. "Now tell me! What's yer racket,
Jack?" The balding man in the window of the booth was rapping a big,
sweaty set of knuckles on the counter.

"Okay, okay," I said.

"How many," he demanded.

Doris pushed in, stuck her hand beneath the iron grill and said,
"Twenty-Five." The fat man was already spooling them off before I
could say "Boo." That cost me two bucks and a half. On top of that
came the cost of the Cokes, one ticket each--for nothing more than a
bottle of pop! Doris had chosen a table among others that were vacant
around it, in a dark corner up against the back of the refreshment
stand. She had her hand out. "You gotta give me two tickets for us to
sit here, it's five minutes per the ticket," she said. "After that, we
can either stay here or get up to dance." I reached behind my lapel
and before I knew what, she had her hand in there, pulling on the
strip in my pocket till she had two to tear off.

She had her eyes going over my face again. "Anybody ever tell you,
you're awfully homely, in a cute and cuddly kind of way?"

"No," I said. "I can't say any other dame's ever said anything so
sweet."

"Really?"

"Yeah. This is one for the books."

"Aw, don't get your feelings hurt." She grabbed my head, pulled it
down and planted kiss right on my cheek. Then she let go. "All
better?" I had to turn and face her, with my hand still up to my
cheek. "Say! Where do they get a dame like you anyway--out of a box of
Cracker Jacks?" This time she let me have it good, just below the
shoulder with a balled up fist. "Cracker Jacks!" she exclaimed. "I'm
no cheap toy."

"Of course you're not, baby," I said, rubbing my arm. "You're just
kind of 'crackers' is all I meant." She still looked insulted, so I
said, "In a charming way, I mean."

"Yeah?"

"Listen! If I wasn't here on business, I'd have a string of tickets
long enough to wrap you up like a mummy and take you off to my
pyramid."

"Hah!" She laughed like she thought that was a pretty good one.
"Yeah, over to the Egyptian theatre maybe. We could go there and . . .
hold hands in the back row." No sooner spoken than done; she had my
hand over in her lap, in both hers, squeezing it tight. "But first I
want to know your business, and what it's got to do with this place.
Maybe you really are a flatfoot. Are ya, huh?"

"More like a gum-shoe."

"A private dick, for the cryin' out loud?" While she looked me up and
down, I shrugged, and since she'd let go my hand, I used it to reach
for my hat, to smooth a dent out of the felt. I said, "A client of
mine is worried about his daughter. Last he heard she was dancing
here. I've been hired to locate her, try to coax her into smoothing
things out with the old man, and come home."

"That's all?"

"That's it."

After taking a polished nail from the corner of her mouth, she said,
"What's her name?"

"Marlene."

She thought for a moment and said, "We have three Marlenes I know of,
but of course that doesn't mean any of 'em are really a Marlene. They
might be a Donna or a Heddy or a Maud."

"She's a tall blonde."

Suddenly a narrowing of the eyes. "There's one Marlene like that." She
took the straw in her bottle and had a sip, then she said, "Marlene
Brown is a brunette. And Marlene Jones, the same."

"One blonde Marlene, you say?"

"Yeah, but that Marlene is my friend."

"Does she have a cute little scar under her left eye?"

She had her hand out. "I need two more tickets," she said, "in case
you want to keep sitting here doing your private dick business all
night."

I pulled out the strip and put it to her hand. She tore two off, and I
said, "You never did tell me your friend, Marlene's last name."

"Smith," she said, wryly adding to that a smile. "Marlene Smith."

"Sure," I said. "Since it's not Jones or Brown. And the scar?"

"Look!" She glared. "Didn't I tellya she's my friend?"

"And you don't want to rat her off."

"You got that right."

"I don't blame you."

"You don't?" Of course I didn't. I'd already hit the jackpot. All
that was left was to scoop up the nickels. Had there been no scar
under her friend Marlene's eye, there'd have been no reason for her to
get all hot and elusive about it. "So," I said, "no more business.
Let's dance."

Her hand landed on mine. "Wait a minute." She turned up her palm.
"Give me two more tickets for Cokes."

"Still got mine," I said.

She jumped up. "Well, one then!" She'd already gone around me.
"Here." I presented her with the strip and said, "Take two, three if
you like." She ripped one and said, "Spend-thrift!" She shoved the
remainder back behind my lapel and was off.

"Some dame!" I thought, and when it's a thought talking, it isn't
kidding. There was something about this hot little splash of brunette
sauce that had me with my hanky out, wiping my brow. She wore her very
nearly black hair swept up in back and brought over to a bunch of
curls that fell out of that pompadour in bangs that she had to keep
training to stay out of her eyes. She was some dish; 29 or 30, looked
to be about 5'2"; filled out every inch of it, not overly, but just
right for the height. And as to depth? There was something
unfathomable about a look that would come into those hazel eyes,
making them like whirlpools opening to something real deep and dreamy
and yet somehow promising the danger that maybe if you got too close,
you could fall in for a long tumble, head over heels into what you
knew not--but maybe wouldn't care, or could do nothing about, like
when you took one stroke too far out into a rip-tide.

When she got back, she sat down with her Coke. She rattled her nails
on the table a second before she said, "Thing is, maybe I should talk
to you about my friend, Marlene."

"No kidding?"

"Yeah. It's been about a week since I've seen her--and she was
supposed to be here at work. I tried to call her lots of times, even
went over to the place where she's been rooming, up there on North
Orange Drive?"

"One of those rooming houses up from Grauman's Chinese."

"Yeah, lots of the studio girls stay in those places, four or five to
the room, so the rent's not so high, on account of how they're like
dormitories or something." I pulled my chair around, the better to
face her as she went on. "Anyway. Up there they told me nobody had
seen her lately, but what the heck! Other than her purse and a coat,
all her stuff is still there, and she didn't give any notice about
pulling out or anything, either."

This was not the kind of news I'd been looking to hear, and certainly
not of the sort I wanted to be passing along to Bainbridge. "Yeah," I
said. "Hm. Look," I touched a finger to my left cheek just below my
eye. "What about that scar?"

"Natch! It's her for sure."

"And what of the name Smith?"

"It's all any of us know her by."

"It's Bainbridge."

She thought hard for a moment. "You mean like that Jeweler's up on
Highland?"

"His daughter."

This knocked her flat back in her chair. "A jeweler's daughter!" And
after she'd tasted the sound of something so rich as that on her
pretty lips, she popped up and said, "Well, I guess that explains a
few things."

She'd got behind my chair, giving it a shake. "We gotta get out on the
floor." Since she was pulling on my arm, up I came. And seeing how
she'd been getting her hands all over me, I tried one on her, to her
shoulder; when that worked out, I took her by both and said, "Listen.
Will you be here tomorrow night?"

"O' course. I'm here six nights a week, cuz if I wasn't, who could
afford to work this joint? You can see I'm not like my friend Marlene
who had a rich daddy to put her up, right here in Hollywood. Crimeny!
No wonder she could afford to be bunking up there with those Busby
Berkeley broads. Me? I'm living up in North Hollywood with my old maid
Aunt. Ain't it grand?"

I pulled a hand away from that creamy shoulder, and put it to my vest
pocket. "I want you to take the rest of these on account of how I got
to take it on the lam out of here on this business." She pushed my
hand away when the tickets came out, saying, "Aw, g'wan. Keep 'em! I
mean if you're the sort who's afraid to get out on the floor and do a
harmless little Two-Step with a girl."

"Say!" I said, dropping the strip of tickets on the table. "If you
don't grab 'em somebody else will--and besides! Why do you think I
wanted to know if you'll be here tomorrow night?"

"Could be too late for any dancing with me by then." She went out
around me to my other side.

"How could that be?"

"What if some guy even more homely than you comes along to sweep me
off my feet and take me down to Rio? Then all the tickets in Fat
Sam's hand will not do you."

Something came over me, and I felt myself puckering up to plant a big
smooch right on her kisser. I guess I was reaching for her when she
took hold of my forearms, pressing them to her breast. "You just be
here, Spot. Tomorrow night, like you said." She let go, took up the
tickets, and as she was walking away, she threw me one of those looks
over her shoulder that left nothing more to be said.
--
I got a call in the morning about 9:30 from Bainbridge inviting me to
drive up to his place in Whitley Heights, a neighborhood I can just
about see from my office window, looking to the hills a bit west of
the "Hollywoodland" sign. When I got there, I was shown in by a
servant, a very bent one. He managed to get hold of my hat okay, so
you had to give him that--not just the hat but for somebody going
through life at a 45 degree angle, the pat on the back, so to speak.

Out on the terrace, my host was at a white-enameled wrought iron table
with his toast and orange juice; he was hiding out behind the morning
Examiner when the servant came to his side to announce, "A Mr. Monroe,
sir." Bainbridge gave the paper a brisk shake, and lowered it enough
to glower at me over the headline, "Tokyo Rose Liked Glamour, Jury
Told." The paper started to vibrate and crumple under his grip. "It's
an ugly brutal world out there, Monroe!" Smashing the pages together
with a crash, he said, "Sit down." Silently, grimly, his eyes stayed
hard on me as I got myself planted on the hard grill of iron. After a
sip of juice he said, "You, sir, come highly recommended by your
colleague, Rubitsky."

"Oh, Barney?"

"I'm hardly on a first name basis with such manner of people, Mr.
Monroe." Savagely, his teeth tore off a piece of toast. "So, I'd
hardly know." It was hard to tell whether it was the toast or his
tongue talking. Then, while he was wiping his mouth with a monogrammed
napkin I spoke up. "Fine!" I said. "That way we can keep my 'good
name' out of it too." I smiled, showing my teeth.

He threw down his napkin. "I prefer it that way, strictly impersonal
and business-like." As his eyes began again to rove over me, his
attention was swerved to the motions of a pretty, cocoa-skinned maid
come to my side, who did a perfectly darliing curtsy and said in tones
of a Spanish accent, "Coffee, tea, chocola-tay . . ."

"Brandy . . ." added my host.

"Black Coffee," said I, then, "Look here, Bainbridge. I'm afraid my
news for you this morning is not so good."

"Oh?"

"Not terrible, just not altogether favorable. As it turns out, your
Marlene has not been seen around the place in question for the past
week, nor at her residence either, for that matter."

"This," said Bainbridge with a broad gesture, "is not altogether
unprecedented for my daughter Mr. Monroe." He scratched behind his
ear. "You see, she's been known to do this before. She'll work at that
place or some other like it for a week or two and then . . ." his lips
made a breezy sound. " . . . she's gone. Oh, for just a few weeks you
understand, then she's back again--and so on." He doubled a fat fist
and shook it once. "She's wild as a Mustang filly, that girl. Nothing
can tie her down."

"But is it usual for her to be leaving all her things behind? Her room-
mates are wondering about that."

His finger-tips were drumming the table, setting up a storm in the
orange juice. "No. That's not common." He turned to look into the blue
haze over the city. "Now that has me worried." He looked back at me.
"She took nothing with her this time?"

"A coat and purse."

"And left all her clothes, her shoes, cosmetics?" I nodded; he went
on: "What of her phonograph, records and books?"

"The words of my source were, as I recall, 'all her stuff'."

I watched as he stood up from the table, so suddenly that it set the
storm in the orange juice to a tidal wave breaking over the dike of
glass to the white enamel.

"God God, what now?" He was heading toward the stone parapet. I stood
to avoid the spill.

Much as I hated to say it, to the detriment of my own wallet, I went
right ahead. "It looks like a job for the police."

He turned on me, every grey hair in his heavy brow bristling, silver-
blue eyes shooting electric jolts. "The police!" In two strides he was
back to the table, tearing that newspaper up off the chair. "Oh, the
police is it? Well just have yourself a look at this, sir!" He folded
it, and slapped the page, pressing it into my hands; he snapped his
finger at a column head that read, "Women Say Police Beat Arrested
Men."

Seeing I didn't look so impressed or surprised, he said, "Oh, don't be
duped by that. It's only so much as they dare put in black bold type.
Read the fine print, Monroe! See the way they treated those women,
roughing them up, as they describe? There's the scandal!" He took the
paper back before I'd had so much as got started with it.

He turned to the open terrace door and called for the maid; then to
me, in hoarse tones barely above a whisper he said, "If I'd wanted the
police brought in to this, you sir, would not be standing here!" It
was getting a bit much for him, breathing so hard as he was under all
that weight. His monogrammed handkerchief was out to mop his brow, and
he'd begun to sway. I moved to take his arm.

"Here!" I said, "Let's just have you sit in my chair where things are
nice and dry."

Upon his momentous chair-ward collapse, he said, "Thank you. I . . . I
don't mean to--"

"Don't give it a thought," I stepped aside for the maid, quietly
appreciating the change in scenery. When she was done and going out, I
sat down where Bainbridge had been and I said. "I understand why you
wouldn't want the police brought into this, but--"

"Are you aware of my position in this town, Mr. Monroe?" Reading my
blank look, he went on. "No, I suppose one of your sort would not. So
take me at my word when I tell you that I can't afford the scandal."

I was beginning to wonder what he could or could not 'afford'.

"What I mean is, my reputation can't afford it, not my accounts.
You'll be paid well, sir. Do not concern yourself over that."

"Well that's fine," I said "But, if by the end of the week, just say I
have failed to turn her up--"

He thrust himself forward, hands balled before him. "But you *won't
fail*! I am paying you, sir, fifty dollars a day not to fail."

What was he sayiing? "Fifty in front, thirty per day is what I told
you over the ph--"

"One hundred in advance, fifty per day is exactly what I say!" His
checkbook was already appearing from his vest pocket. "And when you've
found her--or God forbid--found out . . ." He was already filling out
the check. ". . . when I know what's become of her--why, then!" His
gaze was hard as the diamonds it was his profession to set. "You will
have five hundred dollars for not failing, Mr. Monroe. Have I made
myself quite clear?" He ripped off the check and used it to wave away
any answer or protest of mine like some bothersome moth. "I am saying
if it takes two weeks, or a month, that's your job."

"With no report given to the police in all that time?" I slipped the
folded check into my shirt pocket.

"I cannot have it." He slammed a fist to the table. Gladly, I managed
to catch my cup before it went afloat in the saucer. "She is an adult,
Mr. Monroe. And this is not the first time she's disappeared. She can
be gone months at a time without a word, do you see?"

With the price of better than two months office rent now glowing in my
pocket, I was not about to argue. And besides, any heat from the cops
over it would be on him, not me. I watched him prop himself up with
both fists to a stand. "And now, my dear fellow, if there's nothing
more . . ."

There was, or could've been but since this was the break I was looking
for, I took it.
--
Driving back down Laurel Canyon Boulevard toward the office, I was
going over in mind some of the things Ruditksy had told me this
morning over the phone, when I called him up, just before I took the
drive up to see Bainbridge. He'd had a few things to say about Fat
Sam at the Stardust dime-a-dance joint, about his suspected
connections with the B-girl trade over at the Florentine Gardens, a
burlesque emporium on Hollywood Boulevard just east of Vine street; a
place recently in the spotlight due to photos in the papers shot there
of a certain dame, soon to become infamously named, the "Black
Dahlia".

Unsolved as that grisly murder has remained, it's had the whole town
down with a case of the heebie-jeebies. And now, after what my fellow
shamus had told me about a connection between Fat Sam and the Gardens,
the thought of that six o'clock drink waiting for me over at the
Frolics was on my mind with a bigger sense of anticipation than usual.
Lucky thing I've developed the nerves of steel it takes to leave a six
o'clock drink for six o'clock.

I stopped at the bottom of Laurel Canyon at Schwabbs, got parked and
went in to see if maybe I could discover Lana Turner, while having a
grilled cheese sandwich and a strawberry malt. Fat chance at that of
course, since the past never repeats itself on a thing like that, but
there did happen to be two or three good looking dolls sitting along
the counter who had that as yet undiscovered look, which is always
about the best thing about Schwabbs, other than the grilled cheese.

I don't know about other people, but I always do like a slice of
pickle or two with my grilled cheese, even if it is quite a trick
trying to get the sandwich pried open enough to slip your pickle in
there. It makes you wonder why they don't just put them in for you--
ahead of time? They really should think about it. Then, when you order
they could ask, "Pickle on the side or grill it?" Then you could hear
the waitress sing out, "Toasted cheese. Grill the pickle!" Too much
to ask for in this world? I wouldn't think so.

By the time 6:00 had finally ground around, it was after I'd managed
to get some divorce case business further along the way by bringing a
roll of film over to the photographer, and picking another one up; got
some paper work shifted around the desk, till at last I was once again
at my usual table at the Frolics, and telling Mae about my idea for a
grilled cheese sandwich. She was saying, "I think what you are, Monroe
is one of them, what they call, 'utopians'."

"Yeah?"

And then she said, "Say! You gonna sit here soaking up all the Scotch
we got in the house, or are you going to have something to eat--and
DON'T ask for me to be grilling your pickle in no toasted cheese
sandwich I got here, or I'll call down the FBI on ya for some kind of
suspected subversions."

That sure set me back a step, so I said, "What is a utopian anyway?"

"I think it's about the same as a Red, only a little harder to nail
down," she said.

"Aw, g'wan," I said. "On the day I see a communist eating a toasted
cheese sandwich, I'll . . .turn in my Diner's Club card."

"Geez. So what do you think a communist eats, if it ain't a toasted
cheese sandwich with the pickles snuck right into it?"

"Eggplant," I said.

"Go. On!" She put hands to her hips. "Says who?"

"Says me. I saw it with my own eyes, in Boyle Heights one time when I
was working undercover for a certain G-man."

"Nah!"

"It's a fact."

"So what else besides eggplant does one of them subverts eat?"

"Goat milk yogurt."

"Say! I can see that all right."

"As I live and breathe."

"What else?"

"Aside from the usual Black Russian or Vodka Tom Collins, I--"

"Tom Communist, more like. Yeah. So what do you want with yours, the
steak or the toasted cheese?"

"Steak. I had the toasted cheese for lunch."

"Yeah, you had your toasted cheese already," she said as she wiggled
me a pinch on the cheek, "I could of known by the cheesy look on yer
face, as if you wasn't already homely enough."

"I want you to know how much I appreciate being reminded of that,
Mae," I said. "It really means a lot to me."

"Aw!" She frowned a little, slapping to my mug the kiss she'd smooched
to her fingers. She sure had a honey of a scarlet colored pucker on
her. And as she walked away I was thinking how it's almost worthwhile
being ugly, if it gets them feeling sorry for you over it. Look at
Sinatra--who but a mother could love a face like that? Brings that
maternal instinct out in them.

By the time she'd brought my steak sandwich the joint had started to
jump, people were crowding the bar and tables. I could have stuck
around like I do sometimes to have a few drinks, shoot the breeze with
Frank or Mae at the bar after things get quieted down, but I wanted to
keep my head for the night business I had coming up.

After I got out of the Frolics, I took a walk along the Boulevard to
see if there was anything showing at the pictures worth a bother.
There was still a couple or three hours to kill before there'd be
anything doing at the ballroom, so I thought why not? It was a swell
time to be out for a stroll; an hour when the re-bop of auto horns and
motors thrumming low, the occasional rim-shot of a back-firing Hudson
was just my kind of jazz. Down toward La Brea the Chinese Theater had
the searchlights out for a premiere. "The Third Man" it said on the
marquee, but I must have misplaced my special invitation from Louis B.
Mayer and my tuxedo for that, so I headed on up toward the Pantages at
Vine Street.

"Gun Crazy" was the title on the bill. And here was the picture of
some tough looking two-gun Sally in a split skirt and black ankle-
strapped high-heel sandals . "Thrill Crazy! Kill Crazy!" I decided
to go crazy enough to lay my two-bits on the counter, took my ticket
and walked in toward the waiting usher. Turned out to be quite a good
picture for a story with the air of something thought up by a real
dyed-in-the-wool 'Utopian' about five degrees sneakier than a
Communist. But, who can say?

After I got out of the movie and was walking back up the Boulevard
toward the big premiere, I got to thinking about certain words like
"ugly" and "homely." And maybe I had to laugh a little to think--Yeah,
that's me. But then I thought, so what would anybody expect for the
look of a private dick? Humphrey Bogart. Robert Taylor. Mitchum. Or
maybe William Powell? Don't make me laugh. People should come out of
the movies once in a while and take a gander at what guys in my
profession really do look like. They might be in for a big surprise, a
shock, really. Easily, we could be mistaken for a professional guild
of peeping toms or garbage sifting bag-ladies.

I got to thinking of a certain B-movie screen actor, who is short,
balding, portly; a wheezy talking weasel of a shrimp who always plays
the part of somebody begging not to be shot or beaten senseless for
knowing what he knows. Sure, you know the one, but who knows his name?
Who cares? Nobody. So that's the guy I usually end up taking on part-
time as an associate. Somebody to man the desk and telephone, peep
through the necessary windows, take the pictures, fumble through the
relevant trash. And that's the private dick business for you, even if
I can't claim to be so much a dead ringer for the part as that poor
twerp. But that's only on account of being too tall, skinny, and Basil
Rathbone baritoned of voice for it, besides being much too "homely in
a cute sort of way," like the lady said.

As I neared the building that houses my office, and walked into the
lot, I will admit that the prospect of seeing this dazzling dime-a-
dance doll, Doris again tonight did have me getting a bit jumpy. I
finally did get my key into the door-lock of the Plymouth, even though
I still could not shake feeling a little leery about maybe being set
up to get suckered but good, for whatever number of dimes a dame like
that might want to mine from a guy's pocket.

As I made the right turn one block down from Hollywood Blvd off Cosmo,
my street and business address, I was thinking all the way along Selma
of how this taxi-dancer frail would probably make one swell screen
actress herself, so good a job as she was doing, to bamboozle me into
falling for the dream that it might be something a little deeper than
just what I had in my pockets she was after--but okay; I can be
fooled. Could she have been on the level when she grabbed hold of my
hand and kept it in her lap like that? All I can say is, I've had
worse things happen to me in the business of privates investigation
than something like that.

I took the left turn into the southbound traffic on Cahuenga and began
the slow crawl those five blocks left to go till Santa Monica
Boulevard, and I had to give myself something of a grilling as to just
exactly what I was going down here for? It's not like I wasn't out to
get this job for Bainbridge done. Not a chance. Or on the other hand,
was I getting distracted from that by a pretty face? I mean, for a
once in a lifetime date with the kind of gorgeousness that never in
my life before had I got so close? My fingers came to my jaw where
that kiss hit me, and I nearly banged into the Packard ahead.

How could I let some dame get at me like this? It was unprofessional,
is all. Or what? Was I trying to, how they say, mix business with
pleasure? I had to wonder. And what about Doris herself, and Marlene
"Smith" for the perfect examples of doing that, eh? Yeah, just that!
And I thought about what was swinging from my dashboard over the radio
just then--Jimmy Dorsey. And I'm asking, what's he doing for a living
if it isn't just that? But what was this? It wasn't "Green Eyes" but
another piece set to the same tune:

"Amapola,
My pretty little poppy . . ."

Yeah. Sweet and smooth as it goes for rum and Coca-Cola, they mix.
From Perez Prado 'working for the Yankee dollar' over at the Mocambo,
to Harry James blowing down the walls at the Cocoanut Grove, its done
all the time. What's the big deal? If those guys can do the Mambo for
a living, who's going to stop me from stepping into that Conga line?
That's what I was thinking as I swung around to a right on Santa
Monica, to start cruising on by the Stardust for a spot.

Walking back east, up the boulevard that block and a half, I was
thinking about Ava Gardner, and of the astonishing fact that sometimes
the homely guy or the shrimp does wind up with the most beautiful and
statuesque of all the dolls. Who could ever figure it? But then, the
more you think about it, you might come to realize how you never saw
Ava's name on the marquee before she tied the knot with--who? "Andy
Hardy" for the godsake?

Yeah. So now your eyes are open to the scandalous little item that
while she was nobody, he was somebody. It brings to mind some words of
his that went something like, "Always get married early in the
morning. That way, if it doesn't work out, you haven't wasted a whole
day."

Ain't it swell? They should give to him the part of the tough guy for
a change, and make Bogey or Alan Ladd play the chimp to Judy Garland,
for a sidekick. You can be sure she wouldn't mind.

I'd got so far along the walkway as that glossy pin-up of Hedy Lamarr,
when a tall redhead coming up the way deliberately turned into my
path, to stop me there cold. This was something, being ambushed like
that, till I thought, what am I going to do, stand here and let this
big beautiful broad make a patsy of me? But then, no sooner do I make
my move to step around than she makes hers, blocking me again. What
could I do but stand there and stare, wondering if maybe this was from
that scene in *Gilda* where Glenn Ford hauls off to give Rita Hayworth
a roundhouse punch right to the kisser?

Nuts! It was me getting knocked dizzy by the dame, to see such a flame
of hair as she had parted at the side and swept around in soft-waved
tresses to her other shoulder; and there a string of crimson glass
beads lay twinkling all the way down the daringly deep v-cut of a
radiant red evening gown. One of her gloved arms was on wing of it's
scarlet satin hand fluttering down toward my lapel, when another arm,
bare and brusque pushed in to take hold on that wrist; this was Doris,
throwing it down with a growl gushering up her throat to a curled
snarl of 'Jungle Red' lips (by Revlon) that said, "Hands off, Vickie!
This one's mine!"

Next thing I knew, we were dancing. There was a mirrored ball above,
scattering tiny fragments of rainbow over other dancers, and the song
she had punched up on the jukebox was slow and mellow, something she
said was "Polka Dots & Moonbeams," Sinatra and Tommy Dorsey. Her head
was on my shoulder, my heart was a red carnation blooming through a
button-hole in my lapel, and she smelled like a country garden. My
nose was in her hair when she turned her face up to say, "Do you want
to kiss me?"

What did it mean? Why would she want this if she was only in it for
the dimes? The tickets were for dancing and Cokes, and there was
nothing printed on them that said, "Good for one kiss."

Alright, so she wants a kiss. What am I going to do, tell her, "No"?
This babe had me in a spot between a rock and a soft boiled egg. If I
don't give her any kisses, maybe I don't get another word about her
friend, Marlene--not that I needed that for an excuse. So, like the
man says, "It's nice work when you can get it," mixing business with
pleasure, so, I puckered up and planted one on her.

Say! The way she took hold of that one and held on to it for all she
could get, I was beginning to wonder when she might let me come up
for air, so dizzy as I was by the time she started relaxing the grip
she had on me. "Gosh!" she said with a mirror dazzled look in her
eyes, "You're quite a kisser, Spot."

"Well, I--"

"G'wan!" she said. "Gimme another one!" Let me tell you, this doll,
when she knew what she wanted, she had the muscle to get it, and she
got it, but good. Why, had it not been for the music and the smooth
swing beat, I wouldn't have known I still had my feet, or any floor to
put them on, and the way those mirrored balls were scattering stars
all over our heads, it sure made for quite a picture of what was going
on in the song . . .

"A country dance was being held in a garden
I felt a bump and heard an 'Oh, beg your pardon'
Suddenly I saw polka dots and moonbeams . . ." **

Call me a big dumb sucker for dames with moonbeams for legs glistening
in nylon, and open-toed, high-heel, ankle-strapped sandals--oh, it was
nice how her knee came nudging in around mine. "C'mon," she said when
the song was over, taking my arm up against her breast as she led me
to the area where we'd been sitting the night before. She prodded me
to slide in to the crescent-moon curve of the booth, and then took the
tickets from my hand--for the refreshments. As I watched her take a
skip to weave her way through the tables, stupid as it sounds, I kept
wondering how this could be? But you'd have to see this doll, and then
you would say, "I get what you mean." Or that could depend on how
she's looking at you--with that excitement in her eyes, a thirst on
the lips, and you are mystified to wonder what's so pretty about her,
if it's just skin, hair, brows, lashes--or those opals for eyes, afire
with dark promises . . .

Setting down the Cokes, she slid in and got herself all snuggled up
against me, and then she says, "Ya got a phone number where I can
call?"

"Who--me? Call me?"

"What? I got you mistaken for somebody else sitting here?"

"Well, no, I--"

"That is you who was over there kissing me while we were dancing, I
believe?" She leaned closer, took off my hat; took a good look. "Sure,
that's you. Why, you'd be too homely to be mistaken for anybody else."
She put on my hat; the up-sweep of her pompadour kept it from dropping
over her ears. She appraised the way I looked without it, took it off
and handed it back, saying, "Here. I'd keep as much covered as ya can
too, if I were you."

I set it on the table. "You kill me," I said. "You really do."

"Aw, I'm just kiddin' with ya," she said, grabbing my thigh with both
hands, and while she was playing like she could maybe get a Chopin
nocturne going from my bones, what she had to work with between my
knee-cap and hip, she took a couple bites on her gum, head tilted, her
gaze doing a little tango with my eyes. "I was thinkin' I might pay
you a call one of these days." She gave that Spearmint a crack. "Ya
got a card?"

I was reaching behind my lapel when a knock-out punch of "My Sin" or
something packing a wallop of at least 20 bucks to the ounce hit me
square in the beak. I turned slowly to see what--and WHAT?

"So, Doris," said a husky voice issuing from behind a long wavy shock
of silken blonde. "Is this is your famous shamus we've been hearing
about?"

It was something about that wave of hair where it dipped inward over
the left eye that was getting to me.

"Meet Marlene," said Doris.

I thought what she'd said was 'Meet Marlene.' But this was no redhead,
nor any brunette. "Say!" she said. "That's not polite, when you're
being introduced to somebody's best friend. Say something, will ya?"

Marlene had herself a little cackle and said, "Maybe he's the Tin Man
from Oz, and he needs an oil-can to work his jaw--d'ya think?"

"Yeah," I said. "Maybe. But what did you do, Kid--click your ruby
heels together for this magical re-appearance here?"

"Well, that's a nice way to talk," said Doris, "to somebody ya never
met before."

"But we have, Doris," I said. "Didn't I mention it?"

"Since when?" demanded Doris. 'Where?"

"Since I saw that one blue eye wink 'Hello' to me from the top of a
little Edwardian table up in the Hollywood Hills."

"Very observant of you--for a dick," said Marlene. She blew some hair
away from her left eye.

"Yeah, well, it's--"

"May I call you 'Dick'?"

"So long as you don't leave the 'private' part out."

"I never leave the private parts out," said Marlene.

"Never mind none of that!" said Doris. "His name's 'Spot'. So beware
of the dog, honey."

I took a cigarette to my lips. "Don't know why I kept forgetting to
ask your daddy for a wallet size copy of that photo."

"Shoot," she said. "You should ask me; the shots he has are no fun."

"Forget that!" said Doris "What did I tell ya, Marlene?"

"Aw honey, I'm just kiddin' around. You know me."

"I do, and that's why I'm saying."

It was time for the referee. "So, Miss Bainbridge" I said, "when did
you blow in, and from where? You got some people real worried about
you, don't ya know."

"I never blew out," she said.

I looked at Doris. "She never blew out? What does she mean, she never
blew out?" Doris sat there and tossed a pretty little shrug.

"Wait a minute," I said.

Marlene moved over toward the other side of the booth. "You don't mind
if I sit for just a sec, do you, Doll?"

Doris stared at her. Then she pushed, to budge me further out around
the curve, and scooted right in to close the gap. "You can have your
sec, then you scram, just like you said.."

Marlene threw her hair aside. "Thanks ever so," she said, showing a
sparkle in her smile that could launch a hundred thousand tubes of
Colgate toothpaste. When she'd got good and slid in, I folded my hands
over the table and said, "Let me see if I have this straight. You've
never been gone at all?"

"I've been right here all along, six nights a week as usual." Marlene
was pulling a Pall Mall from a pack, and handling a little silver
lighter.

"You don't . . ." I could have sworn I was in the seat of a Tilt-a-
Whirl. ". . . mean like last night?"

"Natch! I was right here, dancing," she pointed toward the edge of the
ballroom floor, where the outer tables were. "Right there I sat and
had two cherry Cokes with a travelling mustard plaster saleman from
Flagstaff. Ya never once noticed me. That was so funny!" And you could
see how much it tickled them. Yeah, it was to a rosy shade of pink.
Marlene finally got hold of herself enough to go on. "Say!" she said.
I saw you sitting right where you are now, and I said to myself, 'That
guy is a goner!'"

"But what do ya suppose?" asked Doris.

"Thing is," said Marlene, "Doris here is my friend so naturally she
gave me the tip-off." She blew a smoke ring. If I hadn't given it a
poke, it would have French-kissed my nose.

I felt an elbow in my rib. "What're ya doin'?," asked Doris. "I'm your
date. Save that for me."

"You don't smoke," I said.

"That might depend," she said. "But never mind!"

"All right," I said. "What about that visit to her place, what you
told me about how she flew the coop, and all her stuff left behind?"

"I had to make the story sound good, didn't I?" She cracked a loud
one. You'd have thought somebody got shot dead--like me. But she was
going on: "Some private dick ya are, Spot, if you don't even check up
on a story like that. How come you didn't go over there and see for
yourself?"

Why didn't I? Well . . . Who had time to wonder? She was at me again:

"I told ya Marlene's my friend, didn't I?"

"Very good friends," said Marlene, wiggling back against the cushion.
"But when she told me she was practically getting sweet on you--"

"G'wan!" said Doris. "Don't tell him nothin' like that!"

The blonde was having a ball, with the sparkling ivory glee to show
for it. "Cat's out of the bag, daah-ling."

"Don't believe her!" said Doris.

"Point is," said Marlene, "we decided to take pity on you."

"Finally," said Doris. "So, if you want to take her home to Daddy,
swell. You can be the big hero. But I'll be the chaperone. I'm riding
shotgun. That's the deal. Are we on the square, hotshot?"

It was like I was feet up under a tub of water, if I opened my mouth
I'd be forever blowing bubbbles. I felt a light kick to my ankle.

"Are we?"

"Oh, sure!" I said, "What's not to like about a couple of dames making
a monkey out of me? Yeah, I'm thrilled."

"Aw, g'wan," said Marlene. "What's the harm?"

"Oh, just a little thing like a professional reputation," I said.
"Other than that, not a thing."

"Aw, quit it," said Doris. "Who's to know except the three of us?"

"Besides," said Marlene, "you simply have to face it: when you wanted
to know about me, well that was too bad. You don't find out--not from
Doris, not by a long-shot." She was sliding out of the booth, and
paused to say, "We'll drop by your office in the morning. You can take
me home to Daddy, and everything will be oke."

"Wait," I said. "What do I say to him?"

"Just what I told you," said Doris.

"About you covering for your friend?"

"Sure," said Marlene, "And I'll tell him I would give her a good
beating if she told you anything else." With that, she rose to a
striking height of around five-nine, gave her hair a toss, threw her
hip in gear and swayed away off toward the floor. I started reaching
for my hat.

"Not so fast," said Doris, beating me to it and taking it down beside
her on the seat. "Just where d'ya think you're goin', Spot?"

"Oh, uh . . . I was --"

"But what if I'm telling you: Stay!" She slid in real close, put her
lips to my ear, blew and said, "Or what if I say, 'Heel!"

"Yeah. Just so long as it's not 'roll over and play dead.'"

She had her hand pushed in to my vest pocket, starting to fish around
till she got hold of the tickets. "Hah!" she said. "Got me a live one.
"Tell ya what. Maybe ya'd like ta roll over for a hot-dog? Now, me? I
could go for a hot-dog."

"Fine," I said. "So what do you want on it?"

"Never mind," she said, taking me by the lapel. "I'll take care of
what I want on it--any hot dog you might give me."

"Okay, okay," I said, taking her by the hand. "You know what you want,
so that's just fine."

"I do know what I want!" she said, as she took that hand and jammed it
up against my belt. "Well?" she was asking as she started to push on
me to let her out. So, I let her out. And as I watched her walk away
toward the refreshment bar, I got to thinking that if all this merry
business we had coming up in the morning could be taken care of bright
and early, then if it didn't work out, it wouldn't be a waste of one
whole day, in the busy, dangerous, thrill-packed life of Manny Monroe,
Private Eye.

THE END

--
JM
**(Jimmy Van Heusen, Johny Burke)