In Plain Sight (11 page)

The sounds of televisions and radios drifted through the night air. I made my way across the parking lot and the grassy incline down to Shirley Hinkel's apartment. Even though the drapes in the front window were drawn, I could see lights and hear music playing. Someone was definitely home. I rang the bell, wondering as I did what she'd say when she saw me. Shirley answered almost immediately. She must have been sitting in the living room.

“Oh, it's you,” she said, not looking particularly happy to see me. “What do you want?”

“A little chat,” I replied.

S
hirley crossed her arms over her breasts and leaned against the door. “Well, given what you did at Merlin's house, I don't think I want to talk to you,” she told me in a flat, hard voice. Then she proceeded to study a fold in the sleeve of the blue print dress she was wearing. It was obviously a home-sewn job. The puckered seams and collar were dead giveaways. She must have changed into it when she'd come home from the funeral.

I did contrite. “That was a mistake,” I admitted. “I went too far.”

Shirley's expression remained glacial. I tried again.

“It's just when I saw the dogs on the mantel like that ... I don't know... something happened to me.”

Despite herself Shirley made a little moue of distaste with her mouth. “I agree Merlin shouldn't have done that. I told him not to, but he just wouldn't listen. Sometimes he just goes too far.”

“A lot of men do,” I observed and flashed her a “we women are in this together” smile and was rewarded with one back. “I just wanted to find out more about Marsha,” I said, taking advantage of the opening. “After all, she did hire me, and now I'm finding that everything she told me was a lie. It makes me feel like a jerk.”

“I imagine it would,” Shirley said dryly.

“And since you knew her ...” I let the sentence hang.

“You did, too,” Shirley said.

“I know. But that was a long time ago. I get the feeling she'd changed a lot since then.”

“That's true.” Shirley unfolded her arms. “She wasn't what people thought she was ...”

“That's why I came to you. I was hoping you could help.”

I watched anger and the desire to talk struggle on Shirley's face. The desire to talk won, and Shirley invited me in. I followed with alacrity, but the moment I stepped inside my stomach gave a funny little lurch and I began to wonder if this was such a good idea.

For the second time in less than five minutes I was transported back in time. I could have been standing in my old place, the one Murphy and I had nicknamed Silverfish Heaven in honor of the little insects that kept popping up around the drains. Shirley even had the same kind of sofa I'd owned, except my couch had been upholstered in green and hers was covered in blue. We'd both placed them the same way, too—facing the stairs leading up to the second floor—not that there was much choice considering the narrowness of the room.

“Bring back memories?” Shirley asked, fingering a strand of frizzy hair. It looked as if it had been badly permed.

“Too many,” I ruefully replied and shook my head to clear them away.

“You were right to leave,” Shirley informed me as I sat down in one of the armchairs. She picked the remote up from the coffee table and clicked off the TV. Then she plunked herself down on the sofa. “The management's letting this place go to hell. Things break and they don't fix them. They just let them get worse. All they want is the money. And now we've got these welfare families coming in.” She twisted her mouth into an expression of disdain. ”Loud parties. Kids running wild.”

“So why don't you move?”

She gave a self-deprecating shrug. “I don't know. I guess after you've been in one place for so long it's easier to stay put.” Then Shirley bent over and scratched a blemish below her knee. The skin on her legs was almost opaque in its whiteness. A network of fat, blue veins sketched spider webs below its surface. The area began to bleed, and she wet the tip of her finger with her tongue and rubbed away the blood. “Merlin's a good man,” she said when she was done. She set her mouth in a stubborn line. “He's had to put up with a lot.”

“I take it you mean from Marsha?”

Shirley nodded.

I suppressed a groan. I hoped I wasn't going to hear one of those “his wife doesn't understand him” routines. I'd heard it too many times from friends who were sleeping with the husbands of other friends. But Shirley surprised me. She said something else entirely.

“You see,” she told me, “Marsha gambled.”

I leaned forward. “You mean like buying a ticket for the lottery?”

“No. I mean as in going to the casinos, going to the race track, betting on football games.”

I sat back a little. This was going to be a case of making a big deal over nothing. “So she dropped twenty, a hundred dollars once in a while. Lots of people do.”

“This was different. She was into the loan sharks.”

“For how much?”

“Thousands.”

“I don't believe it.”

“It's true. A couple of years ago Merlin took her to Atlantic City for a weekend. One session at the blackjack table and that was that. She was hooked.” Shirley grinned, obviously pleased to be the bearer of such tidings. “Merlin told me he begged her to stop, but she wouldn't. That's why they were getting a divorce. He couldn't stand it anymore. People were making threatening phone calls. They were coming up to the house and demanding payment. It was horrible.”

I suddenly remembered Merlin's reaction at the cemetery to the man in the white caddy. This would certainly explain it, but like Shirley's line of chatter the explanation was a little too pat to suit me. I kept that thought to myself, though, and asked Shirley another question instead. “Did you ever see Marsha gamble?”

“No, but she was always taking trips.”

“To the casinos?”

“Yes.”

“Did you ever go with her?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know where she went? Did you ask her?”

Shirley tugged at her hair. “Merlin told me,” she said reluctandy. “We weren't talking.”

“Because she found out about you and her husband?”

“She overheard us on the phone,” Shirley whispered. “I felt really bad.”

But obviously not bad enough to stop, I thought uncharitably. “So what you're telling me is that your sole source of information on Marsha is Merlin. Not very reliable, I'd say.”

Shirley flushed. “He wouldn't lie.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Don't you think that killing Marsha's dogs and stuffing them indicates a man whose statements about his wife might be a little biased?”

Shirley's face turned beet red. “I should never have let you in. Merlin said you were an asshole.”

I laughed. “Well, it's good to know he's right about something.”

“Get out,” she ordered. “Get out before I call the police.”

“Fine. I'm going.” I stood up. “Just tell me one thing: Is Merlin worth the price?”

“You're a fine one to talk about prices,” Shirley sneered. “Don't think I don't remember you and Murphy and all the women he used to ‘entertain' when you were at work.”

Now it was my turn to flush. “That's not true!” I cried.

“Maybe it is and maybe it isn't.” Shirley leered at me. “But you don't know which, do you?”

She was still smiling when I slammed the door. The moment I hit the fresh air I took a few deep breaths. Jesus, I thought as I tried to get myself under control, thinking about Murphy could still do this to me. It was amazing. I had to get a life. I mean even if what Shirley said was true. So what? Who cared? The man was dead. It didn't matter. By the time I got to the cab I almost believed it.

When I opened the cab door Zsa Zsa jumped out and made straight for the grassy verge. I lit a cigarette and smoked it while Zsa Zsa ran around chasing God knows what, and I watched the lightning off in the distance. The storm was definitely heading our way. It was time to go. I picked up Zsa Zsa and put her in the car and headed off to Pete's. After my scene with Shirley I needed a Scotch.

By the time I got to the bar the storm had arrived. The rain was coming down in sheets. Branches of lightning filled the sky. I parked as close to Pete's as I could, grabbed the dog, and ran for it, but even so we were both soaked by the time I got inside.

Except for George, Connie, and a small bunch of college kids down at the other end of the bar, the place was deserted.

“You guys look like drowned rats,” Connie informed me. “Here, take these.” She reached under the counter, took out a couple of towels, and threw them in my direction.

I caught them with my free hand, wrapped Zsa Zsa in one, and began rubbing her down as I walked toward George.

“She smells like a wet dog,” he said to me as I put her on the stool next to mine.

“That's because she is.” I began blotting the water out of my hair. “You look very prep this evening.”

George fingered the collar on his blue oxford shirt. “That's the idea,” he said. “You know you just missed Tim.”

“Really?”

“Yes. We had an interesting conversation about a twenty-two.”

Trust Tim not to be able to keep his mouth shut, I thought as I hopped up on the stool between Zsa Zsa and George. “You'd like it. It has a pretty pink mother-of-pearl handle and everything.”

“Well, that's a relief,” George said as Connie sent a double shot of Black Label down my way and set a small saucer of beer in front of Zsa Zsa. She began lapping up her Molson. “I'd be worried if the gun were ugly.”

I took a sip of Scotch. It warmed by mouth and throat when I swallowed.

“Don't you think this Merlin thing is getting out of hand?” George asked.

“Well,
he
certainly is.”

“Exactly my point.” George took a swallow of his beer. The bottle looked small in his hand. “That's why you should drop it.”

“That's what Tim said, too. The only problem is I don't think I can.”

“No,” George corrected. “You can, you just don't want to.” He took a potato chip out of the bowl in front of him, fed one to Zsa Zsa and put another in his mouth. “So where have you been?”

I told him about my conversation with Shirley, taking care to leave out her comments about Murphy. It was too painful, and anyway I didn't want to discuss the subject with George. He'd been Murphy's best friend. I mean what was he going to say? That the man was an asshole? He was too loyal to do that. It was one of George's more admirable but annoying traits. I finished my Scotch and was just about to signal to Connie when she drifted back up from the other end of the bar. I ordered another Scotch and on a hunch described Merlin and Shirley and asked Connie if they'd ever come in.

“Not when I've been on,” she told me as she set my glass down in front of me.

“But Marsha has been, right?”

“Like I said before, every Friday with the Wellington crowd.”

“What did she talk about?”

Connie flicked a strand of hair off her forehead with a wave of a finger. “The usual.”

“Which was?”

“Her classes. The weather. Her latest diet.”

“Did Marsha ever talk about her husband?”

“Not to me.”

“Did she ever talk about gambling?”

“I heard she's a player,” Connie said cautiously.

“How big a player?”

She gave me an angelic smile. “Now that will cost you twenty.”

My eyes widened. I knew Connie cared about money, but this was ridiculous. “You're kidding.”

“Do I look like I am?”

“I thought I was your friend.”

“You are. Anyone else I'd charge forty.”

“Jesus,” I grumbled.

Connie shrugged. “Hey, I'm sorry but I got expenses. I'm just trying to get along same as anyone else.”

“All right,” I grudgingly agreed. “But this had better be good.”

“Oh, it is,” Connie assured me.

I turned to George and said, “Do me a favor and give her twenty.”

He choked on his beer. “What?” he asked when he could talk again.

“You heard me. I asked you to give her twenty.”

“What's wrong with your money?”

“Nothing. I just don't have any.” I pointed to my glass. “I spent it all on my drinks.”

“You're really unbelievable. You have more chutzpah than anyone else I know.”

“Thank you.” I smiled sweetly. “I try. It's taken a lot of work and training to reach this advanced state, but despite unbelievable odds I've managed to persevere.”

George snorted. “I want this back,” he said, reluctantly pulling out his billfold and extracting a twenty.

“Don't worry,” I told him as I took it and handed it to Connie. “I'm good for it.”

“Yeah, right,” George muttered.

“Don't I always pay you back?”

“In a word—no.”

Before I could reply Connie leaned over the bar and plucked the twenty out of my hand. “Do you want to hear what I have to say or not?” she demanded.

“Yes,” George and I said simultaneously.

“Fast Eddie Marino.”

“Who the hell is Fast Eddie Marino?” I asked.

George took another gulp of beer. “He's a bookie over on the North Side. He's connected. He handles big stuff. Moves a lot of cash.”

“That's right.” Connie nodded her head vigorously.

Zsa Zsa jumped onto the bar and headed for the potato chips. I pulled her down and put her on my lap. “And?” I said to Connie.

“Marsha owed him.”

“How much?”

“I heard four or five figures.”

I choked on the sip of Scotch I'd just taken.