The story so far: Detective Rocky Stone is hired by Wanda Marcellus, aide of Congressional candidate George Wilson, for the purposes of discovering financial improprieties by the incumbent, Congressman Howard Dixon. Rocky is bribed by Dixon's legal counsel, Carl Franklin, and when Rocky follows him to the office of spiritualist advisor Inglehoff, Franklin, who appears to be in a trance, bolts. Rocky chases Franklin through the streets of Los Diablos, when suddenly, Franklin drives his car off the pier at San Carlos Beach. Later, Rocky discovers connections between the spiritualist Inglehoff and both Geroge Wilson and his wife Martha. In the last episode, Martha Wilson, who was waiting patiently outside her husband's office as Rocky discussed these matters with George, suddenly left, seemingly in a trance, just as Franklin had left the office of Inglehoff the day before:
The door leading out appeared to get farther away with every passing staffer that blocked my way. Not even the presence of the candidate himself could stem the tide of humanity seeping through the only pathway in the sea of desks. With each man and woman who filtered by, Wilson asked the question: Have you seen my wife? Have you seen her? Some said, no, others simply looked confused, and one lost soul, a short man with shiny black hair and round glasses, took no notice of the question and walked directly into the candidate's chest. He excused himself and moved on.
At the edge, I spotted the redhead in the blue dress who had hired me in the first place, standing at the wooden gate at the entrance. If Wanda Marcellus hadn't noticed where Martha Wilson had gone off to, then no one did. I pushed against the grain, shoved a kid in a charcoal suit a little too hard to make a good opening for the both of us, and ran the rest. Her eyes danced between me and her boss and back again but there wasn't time to keep secrets, not as long as the man's wife was in danger.
“Martha Wilson,” I said, but before I could finish my sentence, Wilson said it for me, and quickly: “Did you see where she went, Miss Marcellus?”
She kept her eyes on him. “I just hailed a taxi for her,” Wanda replied. “Is something wrong?”
“At least she isn't driving herself,” I muttered. “Did she say where she was going?”
“Van Meter's Restaurant.” A crease appeared in the space above her nose and then quickly disappeared as she suddenly remembered how Martha Wilson had looked, how hypnotically she had come to her. Wanda realized the danger and pushed the gate open for us to get out. “She only left two minutes ago!” she called after us.
Wilson busted through the door first but had to wait for me because he didn't know which was my car. I led the way and he clipped at my heels with every step. A thought infiltrated: some wise guy reporter must have seen the candidate rushing out like that. No doubt he was going to get a load of questions when all this was over. Wilson didn't care. I pointed at my Buick and he threw himself inside a few seconds ahead of me. He yelled at me to hurry up as I pushed the key into the ignition and fired up the engine, and kept distracting me with that same noise as I burst out into traffic, without looking. A Chevy speeding along in the near lane slammed on his brakes, wailed and gave me a hand signal. I wasn't sorry. Van Meter's was straight ahead on Olvidados and some heavy traffic was in store ahead, so every second counted. Wilson wanted me in the left lane so I tried it just to shut him up and the second I did the traffic on the right side broke forward faster. He whined about going back to the right, but this time I didn't listen. He yelled about it and then apologized and hopped on the seat as if that might help us go faster. His eyes were glued to the road ahead, hoping for some glance of Van Meter's sign. He saw it and hopped more. We hit a red light two blocks away and he hopped faster. I had seen children who needed to go to the lavatory act more under control.
Luck was with us and a parallel spot opened up across from the place. The second I slowed down to five miles an hour, before I had even begun to back into the spot, Wilson started to fiddle with his door handle. “Hold your water. You're staying here.”
“But my wife is in there!” he shouted.
I slammed the car into reverse and hit the curb slightly on my way in, jarring him. “You're right, your wife is in there,” I replied, “and you're just about to jump in like a China bull and cause a scene. Would you look at yourself? You're halfway to slugging me in the jaw and I'm on your side. Take one step into that restaurant, Mr. Wilson, and you can kiss your chances of winning goodbye. You know the rules. Step out of line for one second, just one, and the reporters will fry you up and serve you with onions.”
He seethed: “I don't care what anybody thinks.”
“Then think of this: your wife is in that restaurant for a reason. Figure out that reason and maybe your wife won't be in danger anymore. Maybe that reason gets us closer to whoever wanted Carl Franklin dead. You may not care, but somebody's got to be brought to justice for that. Understand?”
The tension left his face and he fell back against the seat. He knew I was right. “If anything happens to her,” Wilson growled, “I'll hold you personally responsible.”
“That's a chance I'll have to take.”
I got out, and dodged traffic to get to Van Meter's.
What brought Martha Wilson to Van Meter's Restaurant and who could she be meeting? Find out in the next episode of The Adventures of Rocky Stone!
The door leading out appeared to get farther away with every passing staffer that blocked my way. Not even the presence of the candidate himself could stem the tide of humanity seeping through the only pathway in the sea of desks. With each man and woman who filtered by, Wilson asked the question: Have you seen my wife? Have you seen her? Some said, no, others simply looked confused, and one lost soul, a short man with shiny black hair and round glasses, took no notice of the question and walked directly into the candidate's chest. He excused himself and moved on.
At the edge, I spotted the redhead in the blue dress who had hired me in the first place, standing at the wooden gate at the entrance. If Wanda Marcellus hadn't noticed where Martha Wilson had gone off to, then no one did. I pushed against the grain, shoved a kid in a charcoal suit a little too hard to make a good opening for the both of us, and ran the rest. Her eyes danced between me and her boss and back again but there wasn't time to keep secrets, not as long as the man's wife was in danger.
“Martha Wilson,” I said, but before I could finish my sentence, Wilson said it for me, and quickly: “Did you see where she went, Miss Marcellus?”
She kept her eyes on him. “I just hailed a taxi for her,” Wanda replied. “Is something wrong?”
“At least she isn't driving herself,” I muttered. “Did she say where she was going?”
“Van Meter's Restaurant.” A crease appeared in the space above her nose and then quickly disappeared as she suddenly remembered how Martha Wilson had looked, how hypnotically she had come to her. Wanda realized the danger and pushed the gate open for us to get out. “She only left two minutes ago!” she called after us.
Wilson busted through the door first but had to wait for me because he didn't know which was my car. I led the way and he clipped at my heels with every step. A thought infiltrated: some wise guy reporter must have seen the candidate rushing out like that. No doubt he was going to get a load of questions when all this was over. Wilson didn't care. I pointed at my Buick and he threw himself inside a few seconds ahead of me. He yelled at me to hurry up as I pushed the key into the ignition and fired up the engine, and kept distracting me with that same noise as I burst out into traffic, without looking. A Chevy speeding along in the near lane slammed on his brakes, wailed and gave me a hand signal. I wasn't sorry. Van Meter's was straight ahead on Olvidados and some heavy traffic was in store ahead, so every second counted. Wilson wanted me in the left lane so I tried it just to shut him up and the second I did the traffic on the right side broke forward faster. He whined about going back to the right, but this time I didn't listen. He yelled about it and then apologized and hopped on the seat as if that might help us go faster. His eyes were glued to the road ahead, hoping for some glance of Van Meter's sign. He saw it and hopped more. We hit a red light two blocks away and he hopped faster. I had seen children who needed to go to the lavatory act more under control.
Luck was with us and a parallel spot opened up across from the place. The second I slowed down to five miles an hour, before I had even begun to back into the spot, Wilson started to fiddle with his door handle. “Hold your water. You're staying here.”
“But my wife is in there!” he shouted.
I slammed the car into reverse and hit the curb slightly on my way in, jarring him. “You're right, your wife is in there,” I replied, “and you're just about to jump in like a China bull and cause a scene. Would you look at yourself? You're halfway to slugging me in the jaw and I'm on your side. Take one step into that restaurant, Mr. Wilson, and you can kiss your chances of winning goodbye. You know the rules. Step out of line for one second, just one, and the reporters will fry you up and serve you with onions.”
He seethed: “I don't care what anybody thinks.”
“Then think of this: your wife is in that restaurant for a reason. Figure out that reason and maybe your wife won't be in danger anymore. Maybe that reason gets us closer to whoever wanted Carl Franklin dead. You may not care, but somebody's got to be brought to justice for that. Understand?”
The tension left his face and he fell back against the seat. He knew I was right. “If anything happens to her,” Wilson growled, “I'll hold you personally responsible.”
“That's a chance I'll have to take.”
I got out, and dodged traffic to get to Van Meter's.
What brought Martha Wilson to Van Meter's Restaurant and who could she be meeting? Find out in the next episode of The Adventures of Rocky Stone!
Go to Episode 14: Ladies at Lunch
0 comments:
Post a Comment