Trouble in Rooster Paradise (10 page)

I told Dirk my name. He stayed motionless and
ignored my extended hand. I sat down in the chair behind the
solitary desk in the room.

“
I’m working for Rikard Lundeen,
which means I’m working for you, Dirk.”

“
Don’t call me Dirk. Only my friends
call me Dirk.” His complexion had crimson patches. His lower lip
curled slightly to one side and uncurled only when he
spoke.

“
Okay, then. How’s
kid
suit
you?”

He gave me a glacial stare. Kid it
was.

Dirk was a good-looking kid in his early
twenties. His white slacks and Anzac-blue windbreaker told me he
wasn’t working at the jewelry store when the cops scooped him up.
He had sandy-colored hair with an unruly forelock that matched his
present disposition.

“
I didn’t kill her. Nobody here
believes me, of course. Not even that pettifogging shyster of my
father’s.”

“
Your father and Rikard Lundeen are
behind you. And if I can help, I will.”

“
I don’t hear a very confident tone.
You think I killed her too, don’t you?”

“
What the police have on you
is
pretty compelling.”

“
I didn’t threaten to kill
Christine! That guy is lying,” he said throatily.

“
What about the blood on your
shoes?”

“
I don’t wear two-toned wingtips.
Those aren’t my shoes.”

“
And the gun the cops
found?”

“
It’s not mine. No one believes me.
It was after nine this morning when I felt it while I was reaching
for underwear. I was shocked to find the thing in my drawer. I put
it down on the bed when I heard the police knocking on the door. I
don’t even like guns.”

“
You
gave
the gun to the
cops?”

“
One of them spotted it on the bed.
I told them I just found it in the dresser.”

“
You
let
them search your
place?”

“
How was I to know I had something
to hide?”

“
What kind of car do you
drive?”

“
What’s that got to do with
anything?”

“
Humor me. What kind of
car?”

“
A Chrysler Windsor coupe—a ’47.
Why? What’s it matter?”

I told him how I’d met Christine the night
before she was killed. I told him the masher story she’d given me
and about the Packard that followed us. That shook him up a
bit.

“
Any of your friends drive a fairly
new Packard?” I asked.

“
No … I don’t think so. No.”
His hostility began to fade. “Christine and I … we were
together that night. Just before you say you met her. I was taking
her home. We’d had a bite to eat. She made me pull over on Market
Street to let her out. We’d had a big fight.”

“
Sounds like you’ve had a lot of
those lately.”

He didn’t hear me, or pretended not
to.

“
Do you think it
was
a masher
following her that night you met her?” he asked.

“
Beats me. What about last night?
You don’t have an alibi for the time she was killed, do
you?”

“
No. I argued with her in the store
earlier yesterday like they say. I lost my head. I do that
sometimes. I suppose I shouted some. But I didn’t threaten to kill
her. I swear it. And afterward I went back to work and finished the
day. When work was through I went straight home and downed a six
pack of beer and half a bottle of bourbon.”

I asked him to tell me about his relationship
with the Johanson girl.

He explained that he’d graduated from the
University of Washington the year before. He’d met Christine the
first month he started working for his father.

“
She’d come in to buy a pair of
earrings,” he said softly. “Prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. Meeting
her was the best thing that ever happened to me.” He paused for a
minute or so to struggle with his emotions. Finally he took a deep
breath and continued.

He told me how he hated the jewelry business,
but started seeing a future in it when he met Christine. She gave
him the incentive he lacked.

“
My dad could tell the difference in
my attitude. I was whistling coming in the door in the
mornings.”

Soon he’d also become one of those repeat
customers at Fasciné Expressions Meredith had told me about.
Christine and he started dating. She was reluctant at first, but he
was persistent. Everything was going well. At least Dirk thought
so. And in the last couple of months, things had started to get
serious. On his part, anyway.

“
I wanted her to quit her job and go
back to school. I said I’d help her with money. That place wasn’t
good for Christine.”

“
Not good
how
?”

“
I could see what it was doing to
her. The attention from male customers was starting to turn her
head. More than once I walked in to find a customer standing a
little too close, or maybe holding her hand. I’d gone in there
yesterday to apologize for the night before. I wanted to patch
things up. Do you know what I mean?”

I nodded.

“
But when I walked in and saw that
old lecher Addison Darcy sniffing the nape of her neck, I exploded.
That geezer’s old enough to be her grandfather!”

Dirk spoke of Christine in the present tense.
It may not have meant much, but the blood that rushed to his face
sure did.

“
Is that what the fights were about?
Your jealousy?”

He gave me a sour look. “I had good reason. You
didn’t see what I saw.”

Dirk told me he’d recently raised the topic of
their future together. He’d brought up marriage. His serious talk
had started to upset Christine.

“
She had ideas in her head about
moving to New York. But I don’t think that was what made my
marriage talk upset her.”

“
What do you mean?”

“
I don’t really know what I mean. I
just saw little changes in her when I started to get serious. She’d
get upset real easily. She’d burst into tears a lot. Cry on my
shoulder. Do you know what I mean?”

I said I knew what he meant.

“
She kept telling me that she wasn’t
good enough for me. Like she was tainted or something. That kind of
nonsense. But I couldn’t get her to see reason. That night you met
her at the movie house, she’d just broke up with me. It didn’t make
sense. It still doesn’t.”

He stared through me. I mulled over what he’d
said.

“
Any sign of a break-in at your
place this morning?”

“
Wha … why? Oh, you mean
someone might have planted the shoes and gun?”

“
Anything’s possible.”

“
It’s what I told the police. I told
them someone had to have planted that stuff.”

“
Any sign of break-in?”

He thought about it. “No. My apartment is on
the first floor. I was dead to the world after the booze. I’m not
much of a drinker. I suppose someone could have sneaked in. I’d
left the window open. But … who would want to set me up?
Who
?”

“
Got any enemies, kid?”

He shook his head. It must have been nice being
so well-liked.

“
Clearly your girlfriend
did.”

Dirk had a bad case of calf love, bull lust,
and green-eyed monster. Such a combination of symptoms has been
known to lead to murder. But I sensed something wasn’t
right.

I stood up, and he did too.

“
Does … does this mean you
believe I didn’t kill Christine?”

“
Like I said, kid, anything’s
possible. Let’s just say I’m believing the proof stacked against
you a little less.” I showed him my right thumb and index finger
separated by an eighth of an inch.

“
Oh.”

It wasn’t very encouraging, but it wasn’t meant
to be. Good cheer wasn’t my normal stock-in-trade. I turned to
leave.

“
Mr. Nilson,” he said, his voice an
octave higher than it had been.

I looked back at him. “Yeah, kid?”

“
Thanks for helping Christine out
the other night.”

“
Don’t mention it.”

“
No, I mean it. Some other guy might
have taken advantage of her.”

Gunnar the Gallant. I liked the sound of that.
I preferred it to Gunnar the Randy. I figured there was no sense
spoiling matters by mentioning Christine’s titillating kiss, the
stirring effects of her sex appeal, or the moves I was willing to
make had she been amenable.

“
And, Mr. Nilson, one more thing.
You go ahead and call me Dirk.”

In those days, Seattle wanted to be San
Francisco in the worst way. But probably the most obvious testament
to the city’s uninspired humdrumness was its lack of A-1
restaurants; the kind long known to San Franciscans. The closest
thing to fine eating was found in the better hotels. Fortunately
for my pocket book and stomach, there were a number of decent
eateries scattered around town, however humble.

Mrs. Berger was an excellent cook, but she held
dinner for no man. If you weren’t promptly seated at 5:00 p.m.,
your plate was removed and the food was served. Your absence was
noted, but mourned only when liver was on the menu. My Longines
said 5:05, so I headed for Market Street.

Holger’s Café couldn’t match the grill at the
Hotel Sorrento and its Ballard location didn’t offer the scenic
view atop the Camlin Hotel, but Holger Lindgren served up a mean
chicken-fried steak, and I’d take an eyeful of Verna Vordahl over
Elliott Bay any day of the week.

Customers were parked on all stools but one.
Holger’s clientele were chiefly single men—mill workers, mechanics,
and tradesmen. Holger chatted with regulars as he worked at the
grill, his cook’s hat down to his eyebrows at its usual rakish
angle. He was the proud conductor of a hungry orchestra—the din of
their conversation mixed with rattling stone- and silverware as
they chowed down. It was the mealtime version of ruffles and
flourishes. The familiar sounds and smells gave me a kind of
serenity.

Verna Vordahl waited tables. She was a big girl
but lean. Five eleven, and 36-23-34 was my best guess. Holger
called her “My lovely Amazon.” She had a pallid complexion with
hair the color and texture of an Irish setter. A thin aquiline
nose, heavy brows, and a broad face were kept from grimness by a
lively disposition and a sort of alchemy she did with vivid brown
eyes and lush lips that curved into a sweet smile.

Verna never slouched, and her sturdy hips
always moved in easy rhythm with the nimble flex of a pair of Betty
Grable legs. As I sat down I noticed that her movements seemed more
frenetic than usual. I looked around at some of the other
customers. I could tell I wasn’t the only one preoccupied with the
supple shape encased in a blue waitress uniform that on her was
transformed into erotic body armor.

Lustful eyes might mentally disrobe her, but as
Hank Vordahl’s wife, she was off limits to the male patrons of
Holger’s. Verna was accustomed to being gazed at, and while she
probably even liked what she took for speculative appreciation, I
doubt she fully realized just what a star performer she was in many
a private fantasy, and how feverishly customers ate to sublimate.
Holger knew exactly what was going on, and he wisely paid Verna top
wages for her marquee value.

Verna’s hash-slinging was a foreign and violent
ceremony that day. Plates slammed when they should have landed
gently. Silverware clashed and clanged instead of being scooped up
with a thuffing noise. I had reason to suspect she was redirecting
her own sexual tension and conflict. It was the first time I’d seen
her since learning the news. I counted Verna as a good friend, so I
faced one of those uncomfortable crossroads that comes with the
obligations of friendship. I knew I had to bring up the subject
sometime if I wanted to keep coming to Holger’s. But it had all the
charms of broaching funeral arrangements to an aged
parent.

“
Sorry to hear about you and
Hank.”

I was suddenly one of Hitler’s generals, Verna
was the
Führer
, and the Russians were storming
Berlin.

“
What’s a girl supposed to do,
Gunnar?” she asked in her throaty contralto voice. “I could deal
with his nightmares from the war. And who don’t need a good belt
now and again? I understand that. And I been workin’ since I was
six years old, so I didn’t mind helpin’ out with expenses till Hank
settled on somethin’ steady. But comin’ home in the middle of the
day to find him and some B-girl in the very bed I picked out and am
still payin’ for …. Well, a girl’s gotta draw the line
somewheres. Am I right?”

I told her she was right.

She took in a deep breath that lifted her
breasts like hillocks in a seismic upheaval. After a heavy sigh the
trembler stopped. The seismologist seated next to me put a big tip
on the counter and left.

“
I mean, what’s a girl supposed to
do?”