Black Mask

Smoke and Mirrors
by Charles John Harper

The cornflower-blue 1948 Packard Super 8 convertible—windows up, top down, fresh off the showroom floor—screeched to a halt in the bus-stop lane in front of the Cahuenga Building. Stopped like a wave in a fish tank, surging forward then back, bobbing on its springs.

With its whitewall tires, rear-fender skirts, and V-winged cormorant, Goddess of Speed hood ornament, it was a beautiful car. A car with style.

More style than the man who jumped out of it. A human barrel sporting a brown-checked double-knit shirt and brown double-knit pants, both stretched to their limits. His slouch hat, too short for his round face and too blue for his brown clothes, looked like it belonged to someone else. A hat he might have taken from the community coat rack at a diner, intentionally or not. He had the kind of stubbled, vaguely insensitive face that made either option seem possible.

He stopped on the sidewalk and scowled at the standing metal Bus Stop Lane sign as if it were a meddlesome pigeon. Then he cursed and, waving hot air at his face with his hat, plodded into the building.

I’d been walking down the sidewalk on my way to the office, one hand holding the Los Angeles Times, the other using a finger to drape my wilted suit coat over my shoulder. I wasn’t the kind of office worker who carried a briefcase. I was the kind who carried a gun.

As I neared the Cahuenga’s doors, I smiled at a cop who was frowning at the illegally parked Packard. Smiled with relief, happy that the man in the convertible had probably only stopped to drop something off and had no need for the services of “Darrow Nash, Private Investigations.”

He seemed more like someone in search of a criminal lawyer. One of those men who, in the dimness of a seedy Hollywood Boulevard office, routinely broke laws. Laws designed to protect other people’s money. Not a hardened criminal, just a guy who creatively stole legal tender on a small-time scale from suckers and insurance companies.

Not that I couldn’t have used a client. I was walking to my office because I’d had to sell my car, a gunmetal-gray 1934 DeSoto Airflow coupe that had never gotten the attention it deserved. Sold it for enough extra scratch to keep up the rents on my tiny apartment on Ivar and my tiny office in the Cahuenga Building. Or at least last month’s rent. Doing P.I. work, as I’d discovered over the last three years, was not as lucrative as, say, stealing other people’s money.

Passing through the man’s sweaty, lingering wake, I held my breath as I entered the building.

Inside—and breathing again—I rode one of the rumbling, squealing elevators up to the sixth floor. The door opened to a disembodied voice yelling at the top of its disembodied lungs.

I stepped out and looked to the right toward the end of the corridor. The man who drove the Packard was pounding on the door to Suite 615.

“Marlowe, I know you’re in there. Open the damn door.”

I turned left and moved quickly toward my office halfway down the hall from Marlowe’s. I couldn’t keep a chuckle from bubbling up. What the hell had Marlowe gotten himself into now?

I stopped outside my office—Suite 640—and looked down the hall again.

The man was bobbing up and down at Marlowe’s pebbled glass door, trying to get a peek inside. “Marlowe, open up.”

More pounding.

“He’s not in there, pal,” I said. “Come back later.”

His voice rose as he stared at the more established P.I.’s door. “Oh, he’s in there all right.”

More pounding.

I turned my key in the lock, stepped inside, and closed the door on the tantrum down the hall.

My office was just as I’d left it the day before, lifeless and stale from the stifling summer heat and from cigarettes smoked while waiting for clients who never showed. One of these days I was going to clean the place right down to the bone. Get into all the corners, under the threadbare sofa and battered desk, behind the lone filing cabinet. Even clean the two window sills just in case I finally decided to jump.

I tossed my hat onto the seat of the wooden guest chair that sat in front of my desk like an empty promise. One that taunted me every day with its silence. Having my hat on it seemed to shut it up for the moment.

I turned on the oscillating fan that sat on top of the filing cabinet to the left of the window behind my desk. After rattling for a moment as it clawed its way back to life, it sent a warm, asthmatic wheeze at my face. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. When it’s August in L.A. and the Santa Anas are on the horizon, you take what you can get.

I stepped to the window behind my desk and opened it. Walter stood on the ledge, giving me that button-eyed look that all pigeons give. Dense. Expressionless. Unblinking.

He waited. Warbled. But I didn’t have anything for him today so I shook my head. He showed his disappointment by slapping his wings on the ledge as he took to the air. I leaned out and watched him find a spot on the sidewalk below. Watched him begin pacing like an expectant father in front of the cornflower-blue Packard.

The cop I’d smiled at was sticking a ticket under the convertible’s driver’s side wiper blade. I had a feeling it wasn’t the car’s first offense.

I was just settling into the chair behind my desk, feet up, preparing to browse the Times, when the door opened. Marlowe had a suite with a vestibule as a buffer to his interior office. A rampart to hide behind if he needed to avoid a crazy client. I didn’t. I had one room. One door. One client chair. And no place to hide.

The man with the Packard leaned in as if he’d opened the door to the wrong office. “Are you Darrow Nash?”

“What does the door say?”

He leaned back. Studied the lettering on the pebbled glass that spelled out my name. Then stood in the doorway and stared at me, breathing through his mouth, sweating through his double-knit shirt, assessing me through his walnut-colored eyes. Until something clicked in those eyes. Like a bullet being snapped into the bolt of a Springfield rifle.

His head swiveled to take in the room. “You busy?”

There was nothing at hand to even pretend that I was. I dropped my feet to the floor and the Times onto the uncluttered desk. “I’ll try to squeeze you in.”

He stepped inside. Closed the door. Rumbled to the guest chair in front of my desk and sat down. Right on my hat. A fate my hat, as bad as it was, did not deserve.

The chair groaned under the weight. Served the chair right.

“Why were you yelling for Marlowe?”

“Somebody gave me his name.”

“To hire him or to beat him up?”

The man leaned forward, legs wide apart, thick hands propped on thick knees. He took off his blue hat and waved it at his face. His hair was unnaturally black and shined with a greasy mix of Brylcreem and sweat. His face was round with splotches of black and red. Black from a shadow of whiskers, red from bursting capillaries. I put his age somewhere in the late forties.

“I pay cash,” he said.

“For what?”

“For whatever I want.”

“Like that Packard out front?”

“You like that car?”

“Better than the one I’ve got.”

“What do you got?”

I held my arms out. “You’re looking at it.”

He squinted at me. “A P.I. with no car? You must be cheap.”

“Only if you pay cash.”

“Deal.”

How can one word create so much dread? I instinctively reached toward the right side of my desk. The upper drawer held my .38. The bottom drawer, a bottle of Bushmills. I hesitated because I wasn’t sure which one to go for.

“I don’t sign no contracts, though,” he said, eyeing through the desk where he imagined the drawer with my contracts might be.

“Me either,” I said. I didn’t have any contract forms yet. That was on my to-do list, for when I had more time. “But if you were to sign a contract, what would my half of the bargain be?”

“Can you keep a secret?”

“Like it’s nobody’s business.”

“I got a girlfriend.”

“Congratulations. What does your wife think of her?”

The ring on his finger was nearly swallowed up by the swollen skin around it.

“She ain’t thrilled.”

“What’s her name?”

“Who?”

“Your wife.”

“Marlane.”

“And the girlfriend’s?”

“Gigi.”

“So what does Gigi have that you want back?”

He cocked his head again. “How’d you know?”

“I’ve seen it before. You think you’re in love, and you want to give your girlfriend a gift, but you don’t want to pay for it. So you take the liberty of borrowing something from your wife. Something she hasn’t worn in years. But in fact, she wears it all the time, you just haven’t noticed because you stopped noticing years ago. And now she suspects you took it and gave it to your girlfriend and wants it back. Am I close?”

He nodded. “Bull’s-eye.”

“And I’m guessing that you realized that Gigi isn’t the love of your life anymore, so you broke up with her and now she won’t give back whatever you gave her.”

He held up his hands in a what-are-you-gonna-do gesture. “I’m a sucker for redheads, but Gigi’s too young for me. It was great at first, but then there wasn’t nothing to talk about. It’s like we were from different planets. That’s why I keep going back to Marlane. We’re the same age and she’s sharp as a knife. We can talk about the same stuff.”

“What does Gigi have that you want back?”

“A pearl necklace.”

“Can you be a little more specific?”

“It’s like a choker, but with two strands of pearls.”

I leaned back in my chair. I wasn’t sure what to make of . . .

“What’s your name?”

“Wagner. Sam Wagner.”

. . . Sam Wagner. He liked sharp women like his wife but went for young ones, then dumped the young ones because they weren’t as sharp as his wife. But a client, as they say, is a client.

I leaned forward. “Fifty dollars a day plus expenses.”

He laughed. “I’ll give you twenty a day and no expenses.”

“Forty dollars a day. Two days’ worth in advance. Nonrefundable. No expenses.” I was desperate. Rents were coming due again soon.

“Okay,” he said fast enough to make me think he’d won. “But I’m only going to pay you for one day. I need that necklace lickety-split.”

He reached into his back pocket. Came back with a wad of bills. Snapped two twenties off a roll that looked like it held a dozen of them.

“You’re a hell of a negotiator,” he said. He didn’t even have the decency to keep a straight face as he said it. Tossed the forty bucks onto my desk. “Shouldn’t take you more than a day. If it does, you’re on your own dime.”

The two Andrew Jackson portraits winked at me, taunting me for taking such a lousy deal. I picked them up and stuffed them in my pocket.

“Be sure and include that in your taxes,” Sam said. Then he started laughing. A hard laugh that died a slow, violent death beneath a smothering, phlegmatic cough.

*   *   *

I dropped Sam off at his house on Las Palmas near Melrose. Not big, not small, but probably not what his wife, Marlane, had been hoping for when she’d taken the oath. She’d come out onto the front step wearing a white apron over a checkered blue dress as we’d driven up and parked at the curb. Her red hair curled just above her shoulders, framing a face in between young and old. A face that bore both an insistent prettiness and a discreet confidence.

She crossed her arms.

Sam got out, looking at her. “What?”

“Do you have it?” she said, her tone anticipating the answer.

“No.”

“Who’s he?”

“He’s the guy who’s gonna find it.”

“Why is he driving your car?”

After Sam had filled me in on the details at my office, I’d talked him into letting me borrow his car. I’d told him that taking the bus would only delay my efforts at bringing harmony back to his wedded bliss. He’d quickly agreed.

He’d even let me drive the Packard from my office to his house, like I was a teenager practicing for the first time. But that was after he’d crossed the sidewalk in front of the Cahuenga Building and swung an awkward kick at Walter that sent the gray bird fluttering up onto a lamppost. And after he’d spotted the parking ticket under his wiper blade. A ticket that he’d snatched up, torn in half, and dropped in the gutter.

“He doesn’t have a car,” Sam said to his wife.

“What?” Her tone took a full bite out of my ego. “So you’re going to let him drive yours?”

“Yeah.”

She stared at me as if she’d already spotted my obvious lack of character. “How do you know he’ll bring it back?”

Sam glanced at me like he hadn’t thought of that. “I don’t know. He seems honest enough.”

She waved a dismissive hand at us. “You two are perfect for each other.” Then she went inside, slamming the door shut behind her.

I wished Sam luck and pulled away.

He watched me leave, standing at the curb like a child watching the best part of his life, painted cornflower blue, drive away. Maybe for good.

A beautiful car.

A car with style.

*   *   *

The Hungry Kitten was a corner dive on West Third Street on Bunker Hill. Two stories of pockmarked bricks, soot-stained mortar, and papered-over windows. Papered over with bleached-out promises of “Live Music!” and “Live Girls!” and the yellowing directive to “Leave Your Imagination at the Door!” Papered over so kids wouldn’t confuse the Hungry Kitten with a pet store.

Not that this part of Bunker Hill was a place for kids.

Or women.

Or much else for that matter.

This part of Bunker Hill was a place for men. Hard men who had given up on responsibility. Or dreams. Or hope. Or all of the above. Men whose interests tended toward the bare essentials. Food. Drink. Sex. Though not necessarily in that order.

It was where Sam said I could find Gigi.

It was ten o’clock in the morning, so I wasn’t expecting to find her there. Dancers on skid row—at least the ones I knew—typically rose late, trying to sleep off the hangover and the humiliation from the night before.

But not Gigi. I recognized her by her red hair.

She sat on a corner stool at the bar amid the baked-in smells of stale beer, cigaret smoke, and desperation. She wore white shorts and a tight red short-sleeve top. A white ribbon held her hair back in a ponytail as she pressed a tumbler of clear liquid to her forehead. Ice water, maybe, but my money was on vodka. She could have been twenty-five or thirty-five. Bunker Hill had a way of aging its denizens.

She lowered her glass and yelled, “We’re closed.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “I heard there’s a dancer here who is the best in town. And”—I narrowed my eyes at her—“I’m betting it’s you.”

She sat up and swiveled toward me, her eyes suddenly alert. “How’d you know I was a dancer?”

She liked the attention and I was going to give it to her. If she thought someone else was interested, someone in a suit who looked like he might have money, she might be willing to forget about Sam and give up Marlane’s pearl necklace.

“Your legs,” I said as I stopped at the short end of the L-shaped bar. “You have a dancer’s legs.”

She smiled and peered down at her tanned gams. “I’ve always thought they were my best asset.”

“That may be true, but the rest of you looks just as talented.”

She cooed.

She actually cooed.

A swinging door to the kitchen—tucked behind the bar and between two long mirrors—thwacked open. A balding man in a filthy torso-to-knees apron pushed through. A man who didn’t need to open his mouth to tell me he wasn’t happy.

Or nice.

Or patient.

“We’re closed, pal, so beat it.”

Gigi stiffened. “He’s with me, Al.”

“I don’t care. We ain’t open, so get out.” He tipped his head toward Gigi and took on a mocking tone. “You can follow him out if you wish, Princess.”

“What’ll it take to stay,” I said, reaching for my wallet.

He came up to the bar and leaned over it, palms flat on the flaking varnish. Each of his forearms bore an anchor the color of a bruise. What was left of his black curly hair had streaks of gray tangled up in it. His breath was day-old coffee.

“I’m only going to say this once, then I’m going to get mad.”

“You’re not mad now?”

“Get out. Take her with you if you want, but get out.”

Gigi grabbed one of his anchors. “What’s the big deal, Al?”

He turned his head toward her. “Orders.”

“From who?”

“Who do you think?”

“What does he care?”

Al stared at her. “Remember last week when Eddie served that undercover cop before we were open? It took a lot to make that one go away, and our beloved owner doesn’t want that to happen again. So, Mr. Suit here needs to leave.”

I turned to Gigi. “How about we go for a drive?”

She firmed up to Al. “That’s a great idea. See ya, Al.”

Al gave a sarcastic, fluttering, four-fingered wave at us as we left. “Be careful, honey. He looks like another undercover cop to me.”

She turned to me as we reached the door. “Are you an undercover cop?”

“Only on the outside.”

As we stepped from the bar, the sun scolded us with its harsh rays, leaving us both flinching and squinting.

As our eyes adjusted, the Packard slowly materialized at the curb. She put a hand over her eyes as she looked at the car, giving it an unwitting salute. “Is this yours?”

I wondered how she didn’t recognize it. Cornflower blue. Convertible. Goddess of Speed hood ornament. The most recognizable car in L.A. “I just got it,” I said. “Does it remind you of anyone?”

“My last boyfriend had one kinda like it.”

“Kinda like it?”

“Yeah. He ran back to his wife, just like they all do.” She turned her salute toward me. “Are you married?”

“Only to my work.”

“Thank God.”

“Who was your last boyfriend?”

“Sam Wagner.” It came out like an epithet. “I don’t even like saying his name anymore, the rat. You know him?”

“Maybe. I sold a pearl necklace to his wife.”

Her eyes narrowed and her red lips drew into a peevish line. “What kind of a pearl necklace?”

“The kind that’s shorter, like a choker. With two strands.”

“’Cause he gave me a pearl necklace that looks just like that.”

“You think maybe Sam gave you his wife’s necklace?”

“Now that you mention it. But he said he’d bought it for me.”

“Sounds like Sam wasn’t honest with you.” I didn’t think Sam would mind if I made him the bad guy in all this. Which he was.

“Nothing about that rat was honest. Just ask Mr. DeMint.”

“Who’s Mr. DeMint?”

“He owns this dump. He’s the one who gave the orders Al was talking about. Sam stuck Mr. DeMint pretty good on some jewelry.”

“How about you show me the necklace. Then I can tell you if it’s the one I sold to her or not.”

“That’s what I’m saying. I don’t have it. Mr. DeMint took it.”

“He took it?”

“He told me that Sam had stiffed him on some other deal so he wanted my necklace—my necklace—as a down payment until that rat could pay him back.”

I contemplated the shabbiness of The Hungry Kitten. Figured anyone who owned it would also by necessity have to dabble in other forms of opportunistic trade.

“Is Mr. DeMint in today?”

“I’m not supposed to say,” she said, giving me the once-over. “But since it’s you, the answer is yes.”

I smiled. I was beginning to like Gigi.

 

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Copyright © 2025 Smoke and Mirrors by Charles John Harper