palm and held her hand in both of mine for a moment. Any nearby observers would probably have thought I was proposing. Not necessarily proposing marriage, but proposing something.
When I released her hand, she dropped it into her lap. I heard the slithering noise the drawstrings of her bag made as she pulled open its mouth and then drew it shut again. Her eyes avoided mine.
“What did you mean by ‘yet’?” I asked. “How long have you been in the business?”
“You’re only my third customer. My fourth, really, except I wouldn’t take one. Mr. Smith was awfully mad. That’s my boss, Mr. Smith. He said if I ever turned down another customer when I went out on a call, he’d—well, he said not to do it. I was so glad when I saw you. I almost get sick wondering what a man will be like.”
“I suppose it is like playing grab-bag,” I said. “What was the matter with the customer you turned down?”
“He was—well, greasy-looking. I just couldn’t go with him.”
“Why do you stay in the business if you’re so squeamish?”
“How else could I earn two hundred dollars every weekend? A hundred and fifty, rathei, after Mr. Smith’s fee.”
“Couldn’t you live on less?” I asked dryly.
Her chin went up and she looked at me levelly. “I do live on less. Weekdays you’ll find me modeling dresses at Stoyle’s Department Store. I only do this weekends. And every cent I make from it goes to my sister in California.”
I looked at her blankly. “You mean you do this solely to support a sister?”
“Not support,” she said. “Anita broke her back in an auto accident three years ago. She’s completely paralyzed, and she’s been in and out of hospitals ever since, having one operation after another by high-priced specialists. Her hospitalization insurance ran out long ago. She has four children, and her husband has mortgaged everything he owns to pay bills. She needs one final operation to make her walk again, but they’ve reached the absolute end of their rope. If I don’t send the money, she won’t have it.”
I never met a prostitute who didn’t have some heartrending excuse for being in the business. One of the standard ones is needing money for an operation, usually on a poor old mother.
Penny Coynes’ story had the ring of truth, though. You could question her judgment in selling her body to aid a sister, for it was hardly the sort of sacrifice the average woman would even consider, regardless of the urgency of the situation. But I didn’t question her sincerity.
I’m not a sucker for sob stories. As an assistant D.A. I’ve heard too many. I even once had an axe murderer try to work me into sympathetic understanding of why he was driven to his crime. I’ve also heard enough to spot the phony ones.
I believed Penny Coynes’ story.
She gave a little forced laugh. “That’s a fine way to give you your money’s worth. Telling you my troubles. You’ve paid for a good time, and you’re going to get it. How are we going to spend the weekend?”
I looked at her and raised an eyebrow and she blushed. “Well, that I know,” she said. “Is that all you want to do? You want to take me up to your room now?”
She was making an heroic attempt to give me my money’s worth, all right. I’d paid the fee, so she was mine for the weekend, to do with as I pleased. But it took effort for her to be matter-of-fact about it. She wasn’t exactly scared. By her own admission I was at least her third customer, so she couldn’t have been. But she was at least self-conscious. I suppose some women could never get used to selling themselves, even after the thousandth time.
I said, “We have the whole weekend. How about another drink now?”
We had three, and she was becoming a little tipsy by the time the third was down. It didn’t detract from her, though. It only made her cuter. She began to sparkle like a diamond bracelet.
Then, just as we were getting really chummy, a shadow loomed over us and a reserved voice said, “Evening, Mike. I didn’t know the Graham was one of your hangouts.”
We both looked up, and my heart sank when I recognized the round, pink-and-white face of Lieutenant Stan Spooner. He was looking curiously at Penny Coynes.
There wasn’t anything I could do except introduce him. I mumbled, “Stan Spooner,” deliberately leaving out his title, then nodded toward Penny and said, “Miss Coynes, Stan.”
He said he was glad to meet her, in his quietly pleasant way, and refused my reluctant offer to buy him a drink with the remark that he didn’t want to intrude. I thought he was going to move on without giving me away, when he spoiled everything.
He said to Penny, “Hope you and Mr. Macauley have a pleasant evening, Miss Coynes.”
That blew it. When the lieutenant, innocent of the bomb he had dropped, moved on toward the bar, Penny examined me from narrowed eyes.
“So it’s Mike Macauley instead of Mike Ford, is it, Mr. Assistant District Attorney. You’re the man Gloria Townsend was dealing with. What is this? Another attempt to break up our business?”
chapter six
SHE STARTED TO OPEN her bag and reach into it for the four fifties I had given her, but I held up a hand and she paused long enough to stare at me.
“Don’t go off half-cocked,” I said rapidly. “The fake name was just to keep me out of trouble. Think your friend Smith would have sent you along if I’d given my real name?”
She examined my face for a long time, finally said, “Are you trying to tell me you really just wanted to let your hair down? This isn’t some kind of an undercover investigation? “
I said, “I have no intention of getting you up to my room, having you undress and then arresting you, like Harry Allerup did to Gloria Townsend. I’ll leave that kind of work to the Morals Division cops. What difference does it make who I am? You have your fee, and you said I don’t revolt you. Wouldn’t you rather earn it from me than take a chance on your next customer being a greasy fat man?”
She continued to look at me doubtfully. “You’re in charge of the call-girl investigation. Everybody knows that.”
“Sure. Eventually I hope to crack it. But it wouldn’t crack it to toss you in jail. I promise I won’t get you in trouble.”
She hesitated, undecided whether to return my fee and leave, or stick it out. I think my suggestion that her next customer might be less pleasant finally decided her.
“I’m probably crazy,” she said. “I believe you are making some kind of undercover investigation. But I think I trust you too. I don’t think you’d arrest me after promising you wouldn’t.”
I grinned at her. “Now that we’re friends again, want another drink?”
She shook her head. “Not here, now that I know who you are. You aren’t the only one who could be recognized by a friend. And I wouldn’t want it to get back to Mr. Smith that I was hobnobbing with an assistant D.A. Let’s get out of sight.”
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