Negative of a Nude

  Charles E. Fritch

  Negative of a Nude

  Chapter One

  MR. ABERNATHY and the blonde were being playful. I couldn’t tell if the girl were a real blonde, but without a doubt the blonde was a real girl. She was wearing a two-piece bathing suit that barely enclosed her magnificent dimensions.

  I noticed Mr. Abernathy had dimensions, too, mostly around his middle. He had a head composed mostly of skin, white-haired around the fringe area; he was paunchy, knobby-kneed, and he didn’t look at all the lover-boy his wife believed him to be.

  It was obvious what Mr. Abernathy saw in the blonde. It was equally obvious what the blonde saw in Mr. Abernathy. The blonde was apparently willing to trade some of what she had for some of what Mr. Abernathy had, so everyone was happy.

  Everyone, that is, except Mrs. Abernathy—who was probably not a blonde.

  I’d never seen Mrs. Abernathy. I’d received a letter from her with some money in it, and I’d talked to her once on the phone. As a result of these communications—and especially because of the money for services to be rendered—I was down at the beach that crowded Saturday afternoon, lying in my shorts in the warm California sun, toasting my office pallor and watching Mr. Abernathy and the blonde sitting in the sand playing patty-cake and footsies together.

  It’s a nasty business. Not playing sand games with blonde pulchritude—that I go for personally. But spying on middle-aged and married lotharios playing games with blonde pulchritude is not the kind of job you brag about. Sometimes I hate myself. Other times I have to eat. In the constant battle between conscience and stomach, my stomach usually wins because it’s bigger and more demanding.

  Mr. Abernathy was giving the blonde playful squeezes here and there, mostly there because he was out in public and not back in the hotel room. Casually, I raised my borrowed Leica and casually removed the lens cap. I can be quite casual when I want to be, and Mr. Abernathy and the blonde were not doing anything at the moment for me to get excited about. I wanted to finish the film, get the job done, and forget about the whole thing.

  I looked through the viewfinder at nothing in particular and swung the camera slowly around until I got the blonde and Mr. Abernathy in my sights, and then I squeezed the shutter release. I continued moving the camera, as though I hadn’t taken a picture and was still shopping around, and then I lowered it and wound the film back into the cartridge.

  That was it. Thirty-six unposed, unretouched pictures of a fat, aging married man trying to pretend he was a bachelor. I had an extra film in the gadget bag, but there was no need for it. I wasn’t certain even these latest snaps were necessary. I’d gotten some candid snaps of the two of them coming from the hotel and several more of them cavorting on the beach. Those, with the pictures Lenny had taken the night before, would make Mrs. Abernathy a happy woman—or probably an independent and well-to-do one, which was probably the same thing.

  The ones I’d taken were certainly a lot duller than the first couple dozen Lenny had taken during the wee hours. Sometimes you just barge into a hotel room, grab a few shots, then run. Sometimes you get clobbered if you don’t run fast enough. Lenny didn’t like to get clobbered. He preferred to take pictures by whatever light was available and through a keyhole if necessary or under a drawn shade. It was tricky, but safer, and you could get more pictures that way. Lenny had gotten a terrific set of pictures before Mr. Abernathy decided it would be more romantic with the lights out. Mr. Abernathy, for all his age and all his paunch, was quite the amateur acrobat.

  I put the lens cap back on the camera—Lenny would never forgive me if I sandblasted it—put the camera in the gadget bag with the other gadgets, and rested on my elbows to view the other scenery and forget that I had a man’s past and future imprisoned on celluloid.

  Muscle Beach. Home of neophyte Tarzans who weight-lifted, did handbalancing like the monkeys, played catch with pretty girls, or just plain strutted. They weren’t easy to ignore here, but I managed it. I seldom got down to the ocean, but if I’d had my choice I’d have picked a quieter spot. That was partly because I’m anti-social and partly because of the scars on my arms and legs. Old war wounds, I hasten to explain. Shrapnel, you know, and some people do.

  Even so, it was good to get away from my office. It was good to get out of my stuffy Westchester apartment. It would have been good if I’d come down merely to relax, instead of tailing another wayward husband for another suspicious wife.

  I subdued my guilty conscience by becoming interested in watching a couple on a nearby platform. A muscular young man in an embarrassingly-tight-fitting bathing suit was launching a muscular young girl in a bikini by throwing her into the air as far as his muscles and gravity would allow. Failing to get her in orbit, he’d catch her wherever she was available, swing her around by the armpits, and commit all sorts of public mayhem in the name of physical culture.

  Lenny should be here, I thought, having himself a lensman’s holiday instead of home nursing a cold from a drafty fire escape. But I was glad to be away from Lenny too, for awhile. There were eighty-seven million people crowding the beach, but I wanted to be by myself.

  I did, that is, until my attention was distracted by a pair of muscles coming my way. The muscles were encased very snugly in a tight-fitting black sweater with long sleeves. Other parts of the muscle bearer were equally enticing. There were, for example, the equally black and equally tight toreador pants that showed off other muscles. She was also wearing sandals, a beach coolie hat over flame colored hair, and dark glasses perched on a pretty nose.

  She smiled pleasantly at me and I smiled pleasantly at her, and she sat herself down in the sand a few yards away and turned to watch the acrobatics, giving me a profile that sent hot flashes up and down my spine.

  After a few minutes she stretched back on the sand and said, “Good, aren’t they?”

  I stared at her bulging sweater. “They’re marvelous,” I said.

  She laughed, pleased. “I meant the girl and boy on the platform. Are you flirting with me, young man?”

  “I sure am, young lady. Is the guy with the biceps your husband?”

  “Nobody is. I shouldn’t think a husky guy like you would worry about something like that.”

  “I’m not worried about it, but it’s my day off and I need the rest. Do you come down here often?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t afford to get sunburned, at least not unevenly. That’s why I’ve got all the covering, in case you were wondering; I’m in show business. And what do you do when you’re not taking a day off.” She held up a slim hand. “Wait, don’t tell me. I know, you teach home economics at UCLA!”

  “Pretty close,” I told her. “I’m a private investigator.”

  “How exciting,” she cooed. “A private eye!”

  I winced at that one. “It has its moments. Especially on Saturday afternoons at the beach. What did you say your name was?”

  “I didn’t, but it’s Cherry Collins.”

  I grinned at that. “Sounds like a drink.”

  “Fine idea. Got one?”

  “I left the booze in my other trunks, sorry. But my apartment’s just over the hill. My name’s Mark Wonder.”

  She held out her hand, which I took. “Glad to meet you, Mark Wonder, Private Eye. Shall we go get that drink before I turn into a lobster?”

  We made motions toward doing just that. The motions she made doing it were very interesting. I got to my feet and helped her. She didn’t need the help, really, but I wanted to show her I was a gentleman and also to touch her again to make sure she was real and I wasn’t sound asleep in the sand dreaming all this. She was real, all right.

  I stole a glance Mr. Abernathy’s way, but he wasn’t in sigh
t. Possibly he’d gone back to the hotel for seconds. Right then and there I didn’t care. To hell with Mr. Abernathy, I thought; we had enough pictures. My second thought was: to hell with Mrs. Abernathy; let the poor guy have some fun!

  I zipped the gadget bag and slung it over one shoulder. I took Cherry’s hand to lead her across the sand, stepping around all shapes and sizes of humankind sprawled in our path. I’d parked up on Pacific Avenue. We got ourselves clear of the sand and started uphill toward my battered old Chevvy.

  We didn’t talk on the way. We didn’t have to. Our hands were interlocked and sending signals that promised what conversation would make crude. We climbed aboard, and she sat quite close to me, our legs touching. I notice things like that.

  I started the car and pulled away from the curb into the stream of traffic. A left turn at Pico and across to Sepulveda. Another right, and then on into Westchester. And every second of the way I was conscious of her beside me, of her subtle perfume, her delicate bodysmells, the tight sweater, the pants.

  I’d never had such a potentially profitable day at the beach.

  The Westchester Apartments loomed ahead, and I swung the car into the driveway, turned into my stall. I got out, and she got out her side all by herself and came around to join me, a vision in black. She might have looked ridiculous in that costume if she didn’t have a figure that would look good in a burlap sack. I wondered if all of her were real. I knew I was about to find out. It was a pleasant thought.

  She linked her arm in mine and smiled expectantly. We went into the garden separating rows of apartment units, I led her up a short flight of steps and unlocked the door. “Welcome into the inner sanctum,” I invited.

  I waved Cherry in, followed her, and decided her walkaway was every bit as good as her walkato. My private eye was hers and anything else private she wanted. With a pleasantly evil feeling, I closed the door and listened to the lock clicking into place.

  Ah, I thought, trapped in my cozy bachelor apartment with the best looking redhead I’ve ever seen in my young and up-till-now incomplete, sexy life.

  “Make yourself at home,” I said. I put the gadget bag on the coffee table and headed for the bar. “How would you like it?” I grinned at her, despite myself. “The drink I mean. I’ve got a little of practically anything you can name.”

  “Anything you like, Mark,” she said softly. “How about a screwdriver? Orange juice is good for the complexion.”

  What I wanted right then didn’t come in bottles. I wanted a Cherry Collins. But first the social amenities.

  I clattered out the glasses and the bottles from the bar shelves, popped some ice cubes into the glasses and started pouring. I also started staring again. At Cherry’s crossed legs in the tight fitting fabric. They were very nice legs. In fact, everything I could see or imagine of her was very nice indeed. She sat at one end of a couch the landlord had thoughtfully provided, and she had removed her sunglasses and her hat so the flame-colored hair came free to fall around her shoulders. I found myself sloshing liquor over the rim of a glass, so I stopped pouring. A couple brief twirls of the swizzle stick, and the potion was ready to do its work.

  Returning to the battleground, I handed her the glass and sat down on the couch. Her eyes were green, I discovered. Fine. I like green eyes.

  “Banzai,” I said, touching her glass with mine.

  She smiled and agreed. “Banzai to you, too.”

  We drank. It was cool and smooth, good Scotch for me and good Vodka for her, presents from a former client who had plenty of booze on tap but little money. It was like a doctor taking chickens and potatoes as payment for a gall bladder operation and why I sometimes had a liquid breakfast.

  Cherry’s lips came from the glass red and moist and inviting. Social amenities can be annoying things. I moved toward her on the couch.

  “Being a private detective must be exciting,” she said.

  “Oh, it is,” I admitted, “if you think following middle-aged husbands to stag parties is exciting. Or middle-aged wives to bridge clubs or auctions or worse.”

  “You specialize in divorce cases?”

  “I didn’t plan it that way,” I told her, “but a guy’s got to make a living. I used to be a cop a couple of years ago. Then I got off the force, and all I knew was detecting. I’d like to do the nice, clean, brave, romantic jobs, but there are a lot of people in this world who won’t take a detective of my caliber.”

  “Just what is your caliber Mark?”

  I didn’t want to start confessing my sins this early in our relationship, so I said, “A thirty-eight. It makes a neat little hole where it goes in, and then it starts getting dirty.” I grinned at her in what I hoped was a boyish manner. “One of my standard grim jokes. Sorry. Actually, it’s not too bad. A photog friend of mine works with me on the cases. It’s a nasty business, but one of these days—”

  “I didn’t mean to depress you,” she said.

  Honey, I thought, you can depress me any time you want. But I said, “What about you? Cherry Collins. Where have I heard that name before?”

  “I’m sure you haven’t. But you might have heard of the Nocturne Club. I work there.”

  Something clicked in my peanut brain. The Nocturne Club was a peeler palace over on Western Avenue. It had the usual furnishings—a bar, drinks, tables, sweatered waitresses, and a floor show that showed bright young ladies under dim lights taking off their clothes to a bouncy, brassy tune of a three or four piece combo. I’d been there, only not recently. The owner, Jake Richey, and I had an understanding. We hated each other.

  “You said you were in show business,” I recalled, “but you didn’t say what you showed. You’re one of the strippers at the Nocturne.”

  She nodded. “I just came down to L.A. from San Francisco a few weeks ago. I used to work the International Settlement up there, some other places around. Jake—Mr. Richey, my boss—saw me and offered me a better deal down here. He promised me top billing once I got a following for the act.”

  “I’ve never seen you onstage,” I said, edging toward her on the couch, “but you can count me in as a follower.”

  She smiled. “You’re sweet.”

  “I know,” I said.

  I wanted to ask her what her real name was, but I was afraid it would be something like Myrtle Snagbottom and that would spoil the magic. Besides, our legs were touching, and the social amenities had about run their dreary course.

  I leaned toward her and removed the glass gently from her hand and placed it with my glass on the nearby coffee table. She leaned toward me and lifted her face toward mine. Her lips were red, moist, slightly parted. I covered them with mine, my arms around her, and her arms went around me and up my bare back. Her black-clad body moulded against me, and I could practically feel the flesh beneath. But only practically, and that was rapidly getting to be not nearly enough. I forced her back on the couch and my hands went to her waist, where sweater joined toreador pants.

  And the phone started ringing.

  I ignored it. There was a time and a place for everything and this was not the time for chatting on the phone.

  Her lips worked against mine, pulled free. The phone was still ringing. “The—the phone,” she said.

  “They’ll go away,” I said.

  She squirmed loose and stood up. “My, you sure are an athletic private detective. Please answer the phone, Mark. It—it makes me nervous jangling, and it might be important.”

  I sighed temporary defeat and got up to answer it. If it was Lenny saying he was bored and could he come over for a game of cards, I’d throttle the guy.

  “Hello,” I said into the instrument.

  At the office there were times I did this with a Chinese accent, so in case it was a bill collector or other bad news I could pretend it was the wrong number or I could say, “No, Mist’ Wonder not in, he just left for Tijuana on safari, you try again maybe Easter, so sorry.” I was too annoyed now to be up to it, so I just said, “Hello,” and l
et the guy whose dime it was carry the ball.

  The guy was a girl, and she seemed puzzled by my refusing to commit myself, “Hello,” she said, “is this Mark Wonder?”

  I stared mournfully at Cherry, who had returned to the couch and her orange and Vodka and had completely destroyed my beachhead by stuffing her sweater back into her pants. I half-expected the girl on the phone to add “private eye” the way they do on television. Somehow, ordinarily anyway, this amused me. I guess it was because my life and hard times were anything but private these days, what with Lieutenant MacPherson of L.A.’s Finest doing his best to punish me for my sins. Bad publicity doesn’t merely hurt my pride, which is under a four-inch layer of skin and can take it, but my finances—and that was really bad.

  I admitted to the girl on the phone that I was indeed Mark Wonder. Her voice was too sweet to be a bill collector’s, but I was hoping she wasn’t going to offer me a free home demonstration of a new vacuum cleaner.

  “The private investigator?” she persisted.

  “Yes, the private investigator. Look, Miss, if this is about business…”

  “This is Eloise Dutton, Mr. Wonder,” she rushed on. “I’m sorry to bother you at your home, but it is important. I’m calling for my husband, Harvey Dutton. Could you come out to our house this evening? Harvey would like to talk to you about—about retaining your services.”

  “Can’t it wait until Monday, Mrs. Dutton. I’ve been busy all week, and I’d like a little rest and relaxation.…” I could almost feel Cherry smiling at that one.

  “It’s quite important,” the girl insisted. “Harvey would make it well worth your while financially.”

  I knew it. I knew she’d mention money. I sighed. “Okay,” I told her. “What’s the deal?”

  “I—I can’t mention it over the phone. Harvey will explain it to you when you get here tonight. Will seven-thirty be all right?”

  “Seven-thirty will be fine,” I said, glancing at my watch. Five-thirty already. My, how the time goes by. I turned and reached for the pad and pencil beside the phone. “What’s your address and phone number?”