princess, or something like that; she was getting a little old for that type of role.
“Could it be woman trouble, Miss Harding?”
Again anger touched her face; this time it was replaced by an unnatural smile.
“Really, Mr. Phelan, let’s not be naive. This is Hollywood, the land of the divorce. Marriages here are not quite as important as they are in—let’s say, Sioux City. Harrison is my fourth husband. If he chooses to play around a little on the side, no harm is done.”
“And you?”
The question seemed to startle her. She tapped a long finger against a naked knee. She moved the finger away; but I kept my eyes on the knee.
“My morals are my own, Mr. Phelan.”
“I guess I am a little naive.”
“I guess you are, at that.”
“Then I’ll rule out women, Miss Harding. What else remains?”
“That’s why I’m going to pay you fifty dollars a day, Mr. Phelan.”
I rose to my feet. She remained seated.
“I guess we understand each other,” I said.
“I hope we do.”
I, apparently, had been dismissed.
The old man was slumped in a chair by the outside door. His snores had an alcoholic tinge about them; the bottle lay at his feet, empty now.
The Filipino servant who had ushered me in now slipped silently out of a side door. He smiled knowingly at me, handing me a check. I thanked him, looking at the check. It was for $500.
I guessed she could afford it.
I parked in a lot near the Brown Derby at Hollywood and Vine. As I walked out of the lot, I noticed the theater marquee across the street—Claire Harding was starring in Forever You. Forever was a varying degree of time, depending on the woman—for Claire Harding, apparently, it was no time at all.
I had stopped at a gas station on the way in and called Jean MacNeece and she was waiting for me when I got out of the elevator on the third floor of the Vine Building. Jean was an old friend. Her face was too round and too freckled to be called pretty; she had the habit of looking at you with her head slightly cocked back, ready to throw her words at you. She worked for one of the trade papers. She did an occasional column on the happiness of various Hollywood marriages, but mostly she was an errand girl for the more widely known columnists.
“The poor woman’s Sam Spade,” she said by way of greeting.
I grunted at her. She was one of my favorite people, but why spoil your friends? I followed her through the clacking noise of the typewriters into the small cubicle that she called an office.
She sat down, propping her legs up on the corner of the desk before me, showing plenty of thigh. Her left stocking had a run in it an inch long.
“All right, Johnny boy,” she said, “What’ll it be? A little drink? A little sex?”
“Not today, honey. Business.”
“Don’t tell me you’re working again?”
“That’s right.”
“You disappoint me, Johnny boy.”
“I disappoint a lot of people. Mostly women.”
The telephone rang. She looked at it disgustedly. It continued to ring. Finally she picked it up. “She’s not here,” she said. She replaced the telephone, looking at me, laughing a little.
“What do you know about Claire Harding?” I asked.
She straightened the skirt over her knees. Her eyes were serious.
“For the suckers, or you?”
“For me.”
“She’s a bitch.”
I waited for her to continue.
“I mean that—you be careful. She’s a first-class bitch. She’s cut more throats in this business than I’d care to think about.”
“She gave me a ten-day advance.”
“That isn’t all she’ll give you if you stick around her. Believe me.”
“How about her husband?”
“Harrison Woodward? Strictly a nothing, really a nothing. He made a couple of A’s for MGM—or was it Warner’s—and then folded completely. He does an occasional TV thing now, just for face. As the saying goes, he ain’t got what it takes.”
“He’s in some kind of trouble. She wants me to bail him out.”
“That figures.”
“What kind of trouble, Jean? Any ideas?”
“With that guy it could be anything from booze to politics and picking the wrong horse or dame and back again. He’s run the whole course.”
The telephone rang again. She picked it up, said, “Yeah,” and listened for a moment, jotting down something on a piece of scratch paper. She replaced the telephone.
“This is one helluva business, Johnny boy,” she said. “Well, I’ve got to work. If I hear anything through the grapevine, I’ll let you know.”
I recognized the brush-off. I stood up, went to the door.
“Johnny boy,” Jean said, “she’s a bitch, believe me. Don’t fall into the snake pit.”
“I’m not her type.”
“You’re a man.”
With that I left Jean MacNeece.
It was one of those hot and humid days. Smog banked against the hills above Hollywood Boulevard; tourists trotted along the street, their cameras vainly searching for a well-known face; newsboys half-heartedly yelled the latest news from Formosa; a pretty girl in a tight pink sweater waited through two green lights on the corner of Vine, making the day even warmer.
I went across the street to Mike Lyman’s for a beer and a sandwich, then walked back to the parking lot.
I saw him sitting in my car and, as always, a bad taste came into my mouth. Jocko Quinn was not one of my favorite people. His fat little body was wedged into the front seat of my coupe. His mouth stretched into a wide grin, tightening the little red veins on his cheeks.
“My tried and true friend, John J. Phelan,” he said.
“What in hell do you want, Jocko?”
“Is that any way to talk to me?”
I didn’t answer him. I got in behind
