Negative of a Nude Page 4

  “I suggest you restrict your relationship with Cherry to just looking,” he suggested.

  “I’ll try to restrain myself, Jake. Another reason I came over,” I continued with another lie, “was to see if you wanted to bury the hatchet.”

  Jake’s face was grim, and his teeth clamped savagely on the cigar. “When I bury that hatchet, Wonderboy, it’ll be in your neck!”

  “It’s been a long time, Jake,” I reminded.

  “It seems like yesterday,” he said. “If you want to come into my place, okay, come in. You’re as welcome as any other customer, but as soon as you get obnoxious you get thrown out on your tail.”

  “I’ll remember that, Jake buddy,” I promised. “Thanks a lot for the advice.”

  He moved away without another word. My grip tightened on the glass I was holding. There were times I felt like killing Jake Richey with my bare hands. But I could understand how he felt. He was a nogoodnik from way back, but he did have cause for hating me. Damn, but he had cause. Sometimes I hated myself for the same reason.

  The orchestra and the blonde were going mad in blue-spotlighted unison. I watched her writhing, bumping, twisting, torso-churning body. She apparently decided to call it a day, punch her time card and go home to the kids. How anyone could be so active and still look so bored was beyond me. She finished practically flat on her back with a series of bumps that looked like a steady vibration, and the spotlight went out.

  Darkness. Applause. And when the house lights came on in full force, the blonde was gone and a jolly, oily-haired fellow with a tux and a faceful of shining teeth was standing in front of a microphone.

  “April Holliday, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Let’s give the little girl a great big hand.”

  The big hand came, applauding lightly. After which he proceeded to tell some dirty jokes he must have stolen from a hieroglyphics tablet in the latrine of an Egyptian tomb. I thought he’d never get around to saying, “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you—Cherry Collins.” But he did, and the lights went out once more.

  A few seconds later a light appeared. It came from a large drum-like object that had been placed in the center of the dancing area. On the shimmering translucent top sat Cherry Collins hugging one knee and looking sexily out at the crowd she wouldn’t, of course, be able to see. I could swear she was looking right at me, but she wasn’t. Unless she’d seen me come in and sit at the bar. It was a pleasant thought, just the same.

  She was dressed a bit differently from the way I’d seen her last. She was wearing a black girdle, black panties, black silk stockings, black high heels, and long black gloves that reached above her elbows. But she was obviously not in mourning. Her hair was hanging loosely around her shoulders, and the tableau, even in the uncertain light from the drum, was quite effective.

  I hadn’t noticed, but the orchestra was playing softly. It was a ballad, one of the standards, a slow sensuous melody, with a muted but distinct beat. I’m a great music lover, and I knew this was going to interest me.

  Cherry cradled her legs beneath her and rose slowly to her feet. She swayed with the music, her torso sweeping a smooth, suggestive arc, the diffused light caressing her from all sides. She lowered herself again to the drum, shook flowing hair from one shoulder, and poised, looking briefly beneath half-closed lids. And then she raised one perfect, stocking-clad leg and flexed it. She swept the full length of her leg with her hands, one on either side, and then toyed with the garter buckle. She unsnapped it and smiled, and unsnapped another and smiled, and a third and smiled.

  It was a marvelous, fascinating smile, but it was obviously not her sole contribution to the world of entertainment.

  Cherry rolled the black silk stocking down her leg, slowly, unhurriedly, deliberately, until it came free. She flexed her bare leg in the light that came from below and then returned it to the floor, twisting her body again. The other leg came up, silk-stockinged, flexing. The buckles came loose and the stocking was rolled at a maddeningly slow pace down the leg to freedom.

  She leaped to her feet on the drum, responding to a quickening beat of music, and whirling, cast off the long black gloves. Then she dropped to her knees as the music slowed. She sat on her legs, bending her body backward, gently rocking to the music, the light from the drum massaging her. It might have been the end of the world and I wouldn’t have noticed.

  I noticed, though, that Cherry’s fingers were caressing the zipper that held the one-piece girdle together. She pulled at it slowly, teasingly, tantalizingly. It fell away.

  Somebody at the bar dropped his drink, but nobody paid any attention. The light from the drum played up around Cherry’s almost nude body as it continued to sway. She was wearing the thinnest, briefest panties, and her magnificent breasts terminated in thimbles of black.

  She stretched on the drum, eyes closed, lips parted, body pulsating rhythmically. Her hands flowed through the air, pleading suggestively. Her movements took on greater symbolism, becoming frantic, almost delirious with desire. And then, suddenly, the music and Cherry stopped simultaneously. Silence.

  Cherry sighed, and on cue the lights went off.

  When the lights went on a few seconds later, amid applause, Cherry and her drum were gone, and the smiling emcee had returned with a fresh collection of old jokes. I sighed, myself. I felt like I’d just been through a ladies’ turkish bath.

  “Mr. Wonder,” a pleasant female voice said at my elbow.

  It was one of the waitresses. I nodded at her.

  “Mr. Richey would like to see you in his office.”

  “Okay. Thanks,” I said, wondering now what. I gulped down my drink and went around the bar into a hallway to a door marked MANAGER.

  “Come in,” a gruff voice said, in answer to my knock.

  I went in. Jake was chewing up a cigar and playing solitaire.

  “Well, how’d you like it?”

  I didn’t tell him that Cherry effected me the way a meatball does a hungry cocker spaniel. I said, “It wasn’t bad.”

  Jake snorted. “Nuts!” he said, waving me to a chair in front of his desk. “It was sensational.”

  “The kid’s got talent, all right,” I said. “Did you call me in here to discuss show business?”

  “I wanted to apprise you of a few facts, Wonderboy. Cherry told me you tried to pick her up on the beach today.”

  I nearly laughed aloud at that one.

  “And now you show up here tonight,” he continued, frowning. “If you’re after what I think you are, I suggest you look elsewhere.”

  “I’m only a happy, carefree bachelor, Jake, out for a few laughs. If it’s any of your business.”

  “I don’t like your laughs to be at my expense, Wonderboy. Cherry’s going to be a headliner one of these days.” He looked at me sharply. “And one of these days she’s also going to be Mrs. Jake Richey.”

  “I see,” I said, and I did, too; Jake had never been noted for subtlety, and he wasn’t starting now. “Does Cherry know about this?”

  “She knows about it, and now so do you.”

  “Congratulations. When’s the happy date?”

  “It’s not set,” he said. “You can kiss the bride after the wedding. Is that clear?”

  “I get the point, Jake,” I said.

  “I wanted to make sure you did, Wonderboy.” He looked at me steadily, adding deliberately, “No telling what you junkies will do.”

  I left my chair fast on that one and grabbed a fistful of Jake Richey’s shirt and pulled him to his feet over the desk. I could feel the blood pounding in my veins. There aren’t many things that make me boil, but this was one of them. Some guys just won’t let the scars heal.

  “Jake buddy,” I said, and I meant it, “one of these fine days I’m going to kill you!”

  “Like you did Edie?” Jake said quietly.

  I let him go and sat down in my chair again. “I could kill you just for reminding me of that,” I said. “It was an accident, Jake. Do you think I
planned it that way?”

  “You were on heroin,” Jake said. “A cop on dope. Driving a car with my kid sister beside you. What’d you try to do, Wonderboy, fly?”

  “We went through that years ago, Jake,” I said wearily. “I kicked the habit.”

  “That doesn’t bring Edie back.”

  “No,” I said sadly, “no it doesn’t.” I wished it did.

  I got up and went to the door. There was no talking to him. Trouble was, he was right, and whenever I thought about it I felt like the lowest form of humanity there was.

  “See you around, Jake.”

  “Sure,” Jake said, around his cigar, “but don’t make it too soon.”

  When I opened the door, several people, mostly girls in and out of costumes, scattered. Apparently our voices had risen more than I thought, and we had ourselves an audience. I ignored them. I went back into the bar and out the front way.

  The night was chilly and clear, with a full moon. I walked slowly toward the parking lot, thinking: the least I can do for Jake is leave Cherry alone. Okay, so she made a play for me, and I’d played back. I wasn’t sure that was in the rule book now. If she tried it with some other guy, that was her business and Jake’s. I’d be out of it.

  Jake had rattled the skeleton in my closet, and it brought up a lot of memories, most of them bad. There were some good ones, though. Memories of Edie—sweet, wonderful Edie, as bubbling over with life as the young Dody Dutton. Edie and I could have been happy together. Could have, if—

  I forced the thought from my mind. I got in the Chevvy and was reaching to start the motor, when I heard a movement in the back seat.

  “Don’t try anything fancy, friend,” a voice said.

  The cold end of a gun barrel shoved against the back of my neck.

  Chapter Five

  IT WASN’T ELOISE this time, bent on raping me at gun point. In fact, it wasn’t Eloise bent on anything. It was a man who didn’t seem to be too interested in my comfort of mind and body. I don’t like people to point guns at me, but sometimes I don’t have much choice in the matter. This was one of those times.

  “Now what?” I asked him.

  “Now,” he supplied, “you tell me where the film is, and we part the best of friends.”

  “Look, best of friend—” I began, turning to face him.

  He raked the gun across the back of my neck in a short, savage move. I winced inwardly.

  “Suppose you just sit still there like a good boy and give with the answers.”

  “Sure,” I said agreeably. “What answers would you like? I’ve got a lot of them. Would you like a big answer or a small one, a short one or a tall—”

  The gun barrel came down a little less gently this time, and the gunsight gouged a hole in my neck. I swore and started to turn again, determined to tear the guy apart. But the weapon came back firmly against my neck, and my passenger said, “Steady, friend. Leave us not go berserk.”

  He was right. This was no time to lose my head. Literally. I steadied. I also began inching my right hand toward the gun on my belt.

  “Now then, friend,” the man continued, “suppose, first of all, you tell me where the film is. Our mutual friend trusted you and you let him down. That wasn’t nice.”

  “You’re breaking my heart,” I told him.

  “I’ll break more than that if you don’t come across, friend. You shouldn’t have given him the blank film. It got him very sore. So sore he hired me to get the right film for him.”

  “Maybe he didn’t develop it right,” I suggested. “Or maybe the hypo was stale.”

  “Maybe you didn’t give him the right one,” he said.

  “Maybe. And then again,” I said, telling the truth to see how it sounded, “maybe I couldn’t give it to him because it was stolen from me.”

  It didn’t sound too good.

  “If that’s the case,” the man said calmly, “we take a little ride out into the country where we can be alone, just the two of us, and I push you around a little bit, maybe split that sandy crewcut of yours open until you remember it wasn’t stolen after all.”

  “That could be,” I admitted grimly. Abernathy couldn’t have known we were on the fire escape taking pictures of him doing pushups with the girl. He might suspect it, but he couldn’t have known it. Things like that make a guy self-conscious. So I said, “Why is Abernathy so anxious to get this film anyway. It’s not that good. Just him and a blonde on the beach. It could have been a cousin.”

  The man sighed impatiently, and the gun muzzle returned to its favorite resting spot against the back of my neck. “I did not come here to discuss personalities, friend. I want that film you took at Muscle Beach this afternoon.”

  I shrugged. This boy had a one-track mind. “It’s at my office.”

  He thought about it. “Try again,” he suggested.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you took pictures at the beach this afternoon, went to your apartment, and now tonight the pictures are in your office. How’d they get there?”

  This guy was brighter than I thought. That was no help. “I had to check the mail, so I went late this afternoon. Besides, you don’t think I’d carry a hot film around with me, do you. I like to lock valuable things in my safe.”

  Like my bottle of Scotch, I thought—that being the safe’s sole occupant at the moment.

  “I think, friend, that you’re more likely to get the film developed than lock it up. I think you’re stalling for time.”

  “Okay,” I said, “believe me or don’t believe me. I’m sick of the whole mess. I tell you it’s at my office. No use you going way out there, though. Tell you what. You leave me your address, and I’ll mail the film to you.”

  “Very funny,” he said, but he wasn’t laughing. “Okay, friend, suppose we head for your office. If the film isn’t there, you get a beating, and then you make another guess. Okay? Okay. But first—”

  He reached a broad arm across the seat and along my left side under my coat and sneaked the .38 special from its holster. It was a powerful arm. I glanced in the rear view mirror and saw his face. I didn’t recognize it, but it had a familiar look. I’d seen one of those when I was visiting the San Diego zoo. It was called an orangutan.

  His hands continued feeling about my body for weapons.

  “This is no time for romance,” I said.

  “Shut up!” he said, continued the search. After a few minutes he settled back. “You may proceed,” he said.

  I proceeded.

  My office is on LaBrea approaching Wilshire, the Rockwell Building, fifth floor, room 528. Bill collectors can find it with no trouble at all. Clients seem to find it less frequently, but this was the problem when you had to buck city hall. It wasn’t the immediate problem, however. The first item on the agenda was how to get rid of King Kong and escape with my hide.

  I went straight up Western, wondering what I was going to do when I got to the office. I didn’t even have any unexposed film I could give him as a stall. But I did have another gun in my desk drawer. If I could get to that, it would help equalize matters.

  Pictures were sure giving me a lot of business lately. First the stuff with Abernathy. Then Eloise Dutton’s contributions to the world of art. Now Abernathy’s messenger, an ape who looked like he’d enjoy beating me up. I’ve been beaten up before, but not so often I’d gotten used to it or regard it as a form of entertainment.

  By the time we pulled into the parking lot in back of the Rockwell Building, I still hadn’t come up with a better way of saving my already aching neck. I’d just have to try and get the gun out of the drawer before Mr. Orangutan could pull the trigger. The odds were not with me.

  We got out of the ear, and I got a good look at him. Square-jowled, flat-nosed, beady-eyed.

  “Okay, friend,” he said putting his gun in his pocket but keeping his hand on it. “Just pretend everything’s all right. I’ll be right beside you to make sure it is.”

  I knew I
could count on him for that. But I walked out on LaBrea and down to the Rockwell, then into the deserted mezzanine past the empty telephone booths and the shrouded candy and cigar counter. The elevator doors stood open. We climbed aboard. I pressed the number five button. The elevator door snapped shut, and a door snapped open in my brain. Sure, I thought, why not? It’d be tricky, but so would getting a gun from a closed drawer.

  We whooshed upward to the fifth floor and the doors clicked open.

  “Watch your step,” I warned him, and when he looked down I pressed the button for the mezzanine.

  At the same time I leaned into him, got him off balance, slammed a fist into his stomach, and took a fast dive through the closing doors.

  I landed in a heap on the tiled corridor floor, but I’d done it. Mr. Orangutan was busy swearing at the closed elevator door and probably pressing the number five button and wondering what he was going to do when the elevator deposited him on the ground floor instead. I was wondering the same thing, but I wasn’t sitting on the floor doing it. I was clattering down the corridor, past the dentist’s office and the dance studio, past the rear exit door, toward my office.

  It loomed into sight. MARK WONDER, PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS it said on the frosted glass, but I didn’t stop to admire it. There was a spare gun in the desk in there, and I had to get it before my film-loving friend came bouncing back at me.

  I fumbled with the key, fumbled with the lock, fumbled with the door. Then I was in the room, flipping on the light and heading for the desk. The gun was in the top drawer just where it should be. I left the light on and returned to the corridor, closing the door behind me. I made it to the rear exit and got through the door just as the elevator doors clicked open and an angry orangutan charged down the hall.

  I held the doorway open just a hair and watched him. As I figured, he saw the light in my office, decided I was in there, and made a rush for it. I opened the door and stepped into his path. He was a very surprised orangutan. He tried to put on the brakes so he could get some leverage for a different approach. I didn’t wait that long.