Halfway to Hell

Halfway to Hell Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

Someone dropped a dime in the jukebox and some new kid called Presley started screeching about the Big House like he knew what he was talking about. They say it’s the next big thing but it’ll never replace music.

            The bar was dark, low ceilinged and full of stale tobacco smoke. Vague shapes moved through it like lost souls in a fog. I was in a corner booth, way in the back where no-one could find me unless they were looking

            When she slid in opposite me it was like a needle finding a vein. Clean, precise and possibly deadly. My heart began pounding just at the sight of her. She was wearing a long raincoat, dark glasses and a silk scarf that hid her long, dark hair. It was her idea of a disguise. It was meant to make her inconspicuous, but, oddly, it had the opposite effect. It made her look mysterious and alluring. Then again, with this dame, she could wear a suit of armour and men would still look at her. Women too. Some for the same reason, some not.

            She fiddled with the knot of her headscarf, but didn’t take it off. Behind her dark glasses I could see her eyes darting this way and that, looking for danger. Looking for a way out. ‘Relax,’ I said. ‘No-one’s going to recognise you in a dump like this.’

            She stopped her fiddling and looked straight at me. ‘Why did you need to meet with me Mr. Jordan? Couldn’t we have done this over the ‘phone?’

            ‘You never know who might be listening. And the name’s Mac.’ I crooked a finger and the waitress sashayed over. She did it real good, like she’d been practicing. Her name was Cookie. She had a tight blonde perm that came out of a bottle, I knew that for a fact, and red, bee-stung lips. She looked like a female Harpo Marx, only better built. She chewed gum all the time, but she was a good kid. ‘I’ll have another beer,’ I said. She wrote it down on her pad.

            ‘And for your lady friend?’ she asked, but if there was any hidden meaning behind the word ‘lady’ or ‘friend’ I couldn’t hear it. Like I said, she was a good kid.

            ‘She’ll have a soda,’ I said.

            Cookie scribbled that down as well. ‘Comin’ right up,’ she said, and wiggled her way back to the bar.

            ‘Didn’t think you should go home stinking of booze,’ I said, by way of explanation. She nodded and ran her tongue across her lips, nervously. I watched the little tics and jerks that animated her skin and made her fingers twitch. She was a wreck, but like most wrecks, she had hidden treasure just waiting to be discovered.

            As we waitied for the drinks to arrive, I ran through her story in my head. Her name was Delores DiMarco. Rich family. Father dead, mother re-married to a sleazeball doctor called Anderson. One sister. Younger. Went off the rails when Daddy kicked the bucket. So far, so Hollywood. What would a dame like this want with a small time gumshoe like me? Easy. If you’re looking for low profile, I’m about as low as you get and the DiMarco’s can’t afford bad publicity. So, when little sis goes missing and evil stepdad keeps Mom so dosed up she don’t know if it’s raining or Tuesday, I’m just the guy to go find her. Even if it means looking in some low places. If you’re gonna go wading through sewers it’s best to have a sewer rat as your guide, right?

            Cookie brought the drinks over and set them in front of us. She gave me a smile and did that wiggle walk back to the bar. I took a swallow of beer. Delores toyed with her glass, but didn’t raise it to her lips.

            ‘Tell me about George Carter,’ I said.

            She made a small intake of breath. ‘How did you find out about, George?’ she said.

            ‘I met him this morning.’

            ‘What did he say?’

            ‘Nothing. He was too busy dying all over a meat factory floor.’

            There was that little gasp again. This time I could see tears trickle from her eyes and run down her cheeks. I wanted to lean forward and lick them up, but I settled for another swig of beer instead.

            ‘How?’ she asked.

            ‘You don’t want to know how. I’m more interested in the who and the why. Care to shed any light on that?’

            She thought for a while and then nodded her head.

            ‘I should have told you before.’

            ‘Yea, you should.’

            ‘I’m sorry. It’s just if any of this gets out…’

            ‘The family reputation, I know. But this case just got a whole lot dirtier than just some teenage runaway, so if you know anything, now’s the time to spill it.’

            ‘Remember I told you Didi wanted to be an actress?’

            ‘Yea. You thought she’d run off to be with some matinee idol friend of your stepfather’s and was holed up in the hills somewhere.’

            ‘Miles has lots of showbiz friends. A lot of his work comes from celebrities.’

            I smiled. I had a pretty good idea what that work was all about. I motioned for her to go on.

            ‘He told Didi he could get her a screen test. Introduce her to some major players. She thought he was a miracle worker, but I never trusted him. Then, when she didn’t come home the other night, I asked him if he knew where she was. He just said she was visiting friends, but I knew something was wrong.’

            ‘So you hired me to snoop around. Find out where she really was and what was going on.’

            ‘I just want to know that she’s safe, that’s all.’

            ‘And where does this George character fit into all this?’

            ‘He’s Didi’s agent. Used to be anyway. She cut him loose when Miles started turning her head with all his tall tales about Hollywood glamour. George was always sweet on Didi, but he’s strictly small time. He didn’t have the clout to compete with Miles. I called him. Told him how worried I was. Asked him if he’d seen her. He gave me your number. Said you’d helped a client of his, a Rachel Montgomery?’

            I nodded. Rachel was a sweet kid who got in trouble with a loan shark. I had a talk with the guy. Me and my two chums. Mr Smith and Mr Wesson. He saw reason. I remember giving her my card. The same card that wound up in George Carter’s pocket.

            ‘How does that get him killed?’ I said.

            ‘I have no idea. He said he might have to go out of town for a few days, but if I didn’t hear from him by Monday, I was to contact you. So I did. But now, if someone killed George, what might have happened to Didi?’

            I had no answer for that. I finished my beer, left a dollar tip on the table and told Delores to go home and wait for me to call. I might not have any answers yet, but at least now I had a few dirty corners to look into.